


Burnt to a Crisp

by Nejinee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dragonlock, Dragons, Fluff, Humor, Humour, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pernlock, Romance, crossover of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 57,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nejinee/pseuds/Nejinee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dragonriders make up a small percentage of the population of modern-day London. John Watson is a dragonrider who's come home and is just trying to make it work, difficult as it may be. It's fairly unmanageable to begin with until he meets Sherlock Holmes, the man who changes everything in ways John could never have imagined.</p><p>Slight crossover with the Dragonriders of Pern series. No prior knowledge is necessary to enjoy this story.</p><p>Eventual m/m.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

John Watson stared up at the community board and sighed. Talk about a last resort. Finding a flat was just not working out. He was now left with scouring the local areas, hoping upon hope that some fool was willing to give up space in their home for an invalided soldier with more than a little baggage. 

 _I like the last place,_ came Benth's voice in his head.  
John smirked. "Of course you did. The bloody government building across the street was perfect roosting material."

He could sense Benth's snort, even without seeing him. _Why a building like that isn't good for me, I'll never know._

John sighed. It wasn't as simple as that. The last flat was in a reasonably good area but was a more modern townhouse complex that missed one very important feature. A large, spacious, preferably stone roof. Strong enough to be home to a fifteen-metre dragon of incomparable girth.

The landlord he'd met with had seemed nice at first, until John had enquired mildly about dragon accommodation and then, well, then it got a bit out of hand and John might have said a few words he shouldn't have. But really! How difficult was it to find a home?

 _We'll find one,_ Benth murmured softly. John headed across the park, walking fast. It was all well and good for Benth to feel unconcerned but John didn't have that pleasant idealism anymore. Maybe coming back to London was a bad idea. After all, last time he was here his life had been so very different. Young, ambitious and heading out into the world, a doctor! A soldier!

Ultimately, London was his home. It was where his roots lay. But now, well, now John had Benth; Probably the most unlikely and yet fortunate addition to his life.

John saw a vast shadow pass overhead. He didn't look up, but could figure where it would lead.

"Don't break anything up there," John murmured.

 _Last time was not my fault. It's these buildings with their tiles. Not good for me, you know._ Benth answered _this building will be good; Tall enough._

John just shook his head as he entered St. Bart's.

It was true, though. London was as dragon-ready as John remembered. True, there were dragonriders in London, as there were in all countries and major cities. Dragonriders had been around for centuries, their history leading back into the Dark Ages. When a man or woman Impresses a dragon, he or she bonds with said beast, remaining together for the rest of their lives. It is nothing short of glory to find oneself attached to one of the great flying masterpieces. Poems were written, paintings done in honour of Dragonriders the world over. They are a people apart.

And then there's John. Truly, modern-day London is nothing like the kingdoms of old. Dragonriders were perhaps less than two percent of the population, but no less privileged. As expected, to be a dragonrider was a coveted position. For centuries the Weyrs had kept a tight grasp on the control and Impression of dragons. Not only is it illegal to incarcerate a dragon, it is tantamount to treason to be caught smuggling dragon eggs. One of the most highly sought after items in the known human world was closely regulated. Not just anyone has the opportunity to Impress a dragon. Most human expect to go their whole lives without ever seeing an egg, and even fewer believed in ever knowing of someone else who'd seen a golden egg. Only the wealthiest and oldest families had such opportunities. This was due mostly to the fact that these families had dragonriders in their bloodline, were in some capacity connected to the ancient Weyrs or they simply had the wealth and could procure a clutch-viewing. Naturally, as it was written, it is typical for teenagers to be presented dragon eggs. This ensures a long life-bond and aids in the young man or woman's development into adulthood. Tradition is strong in dragonkind. Though the old ways are not necessarily followed, certain rules will always be observed.

Impression cannot be forced, but once an egg has been exposed to a certain personality, it is almost certain that that person will impress that dragon. After all, it is the dragon that chooses its rider.

John wandered through the vaguely familiar halls of St. Bart's, a cynical smile quirking at his lips. _There's another dragon here_ , he heard Benth say.

John sighed. "Okay, but be good. Blue? Green? Lord knows what weyr he's from."

 _It's sunny up here,_ was Benth's simple response.

John pushed through to the lower level exam room. Where was Mike? Bloody Stamford, still as lost as ever.

He had meant to go by his old memories about the hospital. When he'd been to school here, the teacher's could be found in the basement classrooms and offices. Clearly things were different now. The door swung wide, then shut behind him.

"Uh, sorry," he cleared his throat, intending to turn and leave.

"Oh no!" a young woman spluttered, dropping the end of what appeared to be a dead man's small intestine. The other end was in the hands of a tall, dark-haired man whose eyes flicked over John. "You must be here for Mike Stamford! I'm Molly. He told me you'd be coming round. Mike's been caught up in class, you know. I'm Molly, by the wa-oh, said that already." She rushed over to shake John's hand. He merely looked down at her blood-covered palm.

"Oh Lord!" she gasped, flushing. "Sorry, sorry. I forget."

She hurriedly pulled off the gloves and rolled them into a ball.

John stood there. Well. Now what? "Is Mike … on his way at least?" John queried.

"Fire in the Biology lab," came a deep baritone. John looked up, acknowledging the man who was currently wrapping the intestines around his arm, like a hosepipe.

"Ah," John answered. He waited, expecting further information. The other man just laid the organ down on the autopsy table, beside the intestine's apparently original owner, then proceeded to remove the plastic suit he'd had over his impeccably tailored suit. Within one minute, the man went from bizarre, corpse-caressing oddity to runway model straight out of Milan.

"Brown or bronze?"

John blinked. He looked about.

The other man had turned to another table and was leafing through plastic bag-covered notepaper. When John didn't respond, he looked up; sharp silvery-blue eyes cutting John up.

"Me?" John blinked.

"No, the other dragonrider in the room, of course you!"

John gawped a little. It wasn't normal to be able to tell he was a dragonrider. It's not like he wore a badge.

"How did–?"

"He does that," Molly said, fluttering her fingers wildly and bustling about. "He's brilliant."

 _His name is Sherlock,_ came a voice in John's head.

 _Sherlock?_ Even John thought that was new, and he had a dragon named Benth for crying out loud.

"Do be quiet, Molly, you're distracting me," the sharp voice from the other fellow startled John.

When Sherlock looked up at him again, John remembered he'd been asking something.

"Brown. Hm. Obvious." the other man murmured.

John frowned, "How is it obvious? You asked if I rode a bronze too, you know."

"So no disagreement." Sherlock eyed him. "But why didn't you fly him?"

John tilted his head to the side, trying to determine if this stranger was just taking the mickey or what. "Your hands. You don't have harness calluses, which indicates you don't have a harnessed seat. That implies your dragon has large neck ridges for you to sit between and hold onto. That cuts out blue and green dragons, due to their small size. So, that leaves a gold, bronze or brown. Obviously not a gold. And you have no glowing scale flecks under your fingernails, so not a bronze. Well, not one in heat at any rate. So simple, really." Sherlock blinked and John's jaw dropped open. "You didn't fly here though. Why?" He paused, eyes roving over John like quicksilver. Then his eyebrows rose. "Ah! Going by your age, your dragon must be getting on a bit. Also, mounting and dismounting in this city can be hard on the older dragons, not enough sheer drop zones, and so you take pity and walk everywhere. How noble."

John just stared at the man. "Amazing…" he said, then, hearing himself, cleared his throat. "No, really amazing."

Sherlock looked at him. Molly was grinning across from him.

"Really?" Sherlock managed to make it sound like he was interested yet also made it sound like John was nothing more than an annoying child.

"Yeah, well," John shifted on his feet. "It's not every day someone comments on other people's dragons. Isn't there etiquette on that, or something?" Lord knows John wasn't proficient in the art and rules of dragonriding. Why would he be? No one had given him _that_ book.

Sherlock snorted. "Well?"

John wondered for a moment how he'd stumbled into this odd conversation. Mike. Right. Flat share. Yes.

"Well what?"

"Your dragon! Was I correct?"

John contemplated walking out and not admitting that a complete stranger had just read him like a book.

"Brown," John answered, trying to stem the warmth that blossomed in his chest when he spoke of his beloved Benth.   

Sherlock nodded, "Of course."

John smirked. "But you did get one thing wrong."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "What was it? Oh, is he disabled? A broken wing? Blind? Dead?"

John frowned. "What morbid thoughts to jump to. You're a right highlight aren't you?"

Sherlock was about to answer when the sound of lumbering footsteps interrupted them.

"John!" Mike Stamford burst into the room. "Damn!" he threw his bag onto the table upon seeing Sherlock.

"Hallo, Mike," Molly piped up. "See, he's still here."

Mike shook his head. "Sorry, mate. I was running late. Was hoping to get here before …" his eyes slid over to Sherlock who didn't miss a beat, if his smirk was anything to go by.

Mike sighed and looked at John, "So, I take it you've met–"

"Sherlock, yes we've met," John said.

The tall man looked over sharply. John just blinked back. _What?_

Mike barrelled on, "Well, I figured I would be here before you met, but that's how it goes, innit? John, Sherlock. Sherlock, John. You have a room for share, Sherlock, and John's been looking for one. Uh, well. Yeah. Not the best introduction, but what can you do?"

John blinked. This was the man with the flat share? This bizarre mad scientist? John glanced at the intestines, the opened corpse of a man, the navy Burberry suit and pristine white cuffs. He looked at the riot of curls and arching eyebrows...no. God, no. He could do better. He would find better.

Sherlock smirk was wider now. John frowned.

"It is downtown London. And there's a local feeding ground." That deep voice was very, very convincing.

Oh. That had John's ears. But no. No. It would be like living with Prince Charles, surely! Like a Basset hound living with Great Dane. John would be the old fart in the asylum.

Sherlock glanced over a photo wrapped in plastic in his hand. Without glancing up, he added, "Dragonrider-ready rooftop. Should you require it."

John groaned. Damn. It had everything.

"Fine, I'll take a look."

Sherlock moved so fast, John had to take a step back. Sherlock reached across him to the hook just beyond John's shoulder. "Wait, what? What are you–"

The man was tugging at a heavy coat. Oh. John stepped back, allowing him to move past. Sherlock smiled "Fantastic. Sundown. 221b Baker Street. See you then."

And with that, his coat whipping behind him, he was gone.

"Yeah, he's always like that," Mike piped up. 

\---

 

John kept himself busy the rest of the day. He mulled over the options. Baker Street: A really good area of the city. It was close enough to the practice. John was tired of commuting, damnit. When he'd originally landed back in the UK, the Army rehabilitation centre had become his roost. Due to Benth, though, it was made clear he couldn't stay much longer.

He needed a place of his own, not shared with tens of other soldiers and veterans. It was too painful to hover around his old life. He was home for a reason and had to accept that. Baker Street sounded good. No commute.

 _And feeding grounds,_ Benth chimed in.

In between the long train rides to and from his day job, he had to also accommodate the needs of his dragon. No, Benth didn't need to feed everyday, but the city Feeding Grounds were privatized and the monthly fees could be costly. John had had to accept that as much as he would have wanted Benth feeding closer to home, financially he couldn't justify living in such expensive areas of the city. So every few days he would fly Benth to a feeding ground on the outskirts of the city that allowed day-to-day feeding prices and the dragon was able to gorge.

Sighing, John knew this was probably his last hope of a well-rounded home. But at what cost? Was London really where they should be? Maybe it was a mistake…

John stood outside Baker Street and looked up. 221, not too shabby. Definitely an old building, but it had great structure. _Lots of room,_ Benth said, obviously already taking in the large rooftop with its stone barriers. While John had wandered around, Benth had taken in the area, gotten to know the sights and sounds of this particular part of the city. Benth liked to know things. He liked to learn. _This roof is strong_.

John jumped when the door to 221 slammed open. There stood Sherlock.

"Finally, let's get on, then!" the tall man yanked John's arm, pulling him inside.

Over the next twenty minutes, John was shown about the flat. The room he was to have was on the top floor, with a great view. There was a spacious kitchen and a homely lounge. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady was perfectly charming, if a bit fluttery. And Sherlock. Well, he was as sharp and straightforward as John expected. The tall man mentioned the violin (all right), experiments of a possibly dangerous nature (I see) and his adroit experience of being a terrible housemate in the past. John got the feeling that Sherlock had shared many a house with many a roommate and none had worked out. He could understand why.

 _I like this place,_ Benth murmured. John smiled. Benth was easy to please to begin with. Dragons are easygoing creatures. They're not the violent, dangerous beasts of legend. It was because of Benth, really, that John couldn't continue with the Army. Dragons were not meant for battle. Yes, in the past countries had used them in their wars (because nothing was as frightening as a dragon in full battle) but nowadays dragon-fighting was outlawed. Due to their natures, dragons that fought only fought for their riders, that was all. There is no real bloodlust in dragonkind. Outside mating and territorial disputes, dragons are complacent creatures. Terrifying in looks, gentle in mind and strong in soul.

So when Benth was happy, it made John happy. And as long as Sherlock was amenable to Benth, then John would be amenable to Sherlock.

Which reminded John, the talk of his dragon hadn't come up since St. Bart's. Sherlock had made it clear he knew John had a dragon, but was he really certain he could handle having one living atop his home? Not many folks took this easily. John certainly hadn't seen any other dragons on Baker Street on his way over. He also wasn't sure about the etiquette thing again. John didn't grow up around dragonriders. Lord knows he was the first in his family. Did Sherlock think it rude to ask? Was John supposed to introduce the two? Benth, meet Sherlock. Sherlock, meet my two tonne dragon.

With the moon shining brightly now, John accepted Sherlock's offer. "It's a great place. Good rent too."

"Yes, well, it's …" Mrs. Hudson eyed Sherlock, "difficult sometimes to find a good tenant or two."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Good news, Mrs. Hudson, don't spoil it!"

John chuckled. Mrs. Hudson said her good-byes, but gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek anyway. John liked her already.

Staring out through the net curtains, John smiled. Yes, this would do nicely.

"I suppose we should get on with this." Sherlock's deep voice intoned. John wondered where he'd gone to school. Definitely a public school boy.

John turned, seeing Sherlock tapping away at his cell. "Get on with what?"

Sherlock sighed, annoyed. "Introductions! Come on, John. Get with the programme." And he turned, threw his cell phone onto the couch and started up the stairs.

John blinked. Oh! Right. Shit. He'd hoped for a bit that Sherlock would wait before wanting to actually _meet_ Benth. Waiting another day wouldn't have hurt, would it? John followed the tall man hurriedly. God, he had long legs.

They reached the top landing. There was only the door to John's room.

Sherlock tugged at a string dangling from the ceiling.

"Of course," John muttered. There was a rooftop exit. How bloody fucking convenient. This house was perfect, damnit.

A ladder unfolded neatly and Sherlock moved to climb. John stepped up and put his hand on a rung. He cleared his throat. "Uh, d'you mind if I go first?" He didn't want Sherlock to burst out and startle Benth. He wanted to get up there first. Sherlock just looked at him, then nodded, waving his hand up. John smiled, "thanks," and began to climb.

There was a steel hatch inside the ceiling and John pushed it. It opened easily, slowly folding back. The sky was a deep blue and the sounds of the city filtered up over the stony wall.

John clambered out fully, inhaling the cold night air. "Yes, this will do very nicely indeed."

He heard Sherlock come up behind him. John looked over his shoulder. Right.

 _Benth?_ John called.

 _Coming,_ was his dragon's reply. John heard him before he saw him. He and Sherlock moved out past the old, dead chimneystack and rounded the corner. A broad area spread across the closely packed houses and John smiled wide. Definitely a lot of room up here!

Benth's great mass appeared, as the dragon rose from his resting spot. In the dark, he seemed no more than a dark shape. His wide wings were folded back, making him appear smaller. As Benth moved closer, John couldn't help smiling. He forgot Sherlock was even standing beside him until the moonlight lit on Benth's great big head. Those wide opalescent eyes swivelled about, looking Sherlock up and down, until Benth rumbled deeply, head moving to nuzzle John. "Hallo, there" John said, grinning. _Took your time,_ Benth answered.

John just beamed with pride, the great big head coming to rest on the ground in front of him. Benth had one eye on John, the other on Sherlock. 

John looked up, expecting Sherlock's look of awe. Alas, Sherlock merely seemed curious. Not a moment of fear or worry crossed his face in the moonlight. 

"Sherlock, meet Benth. My brown. Benth, this is Sherlock."

 _He makes you look small, John._ John frowned, "Shut it, you brat." He saw Benth roll his eyes with glee. 

"What did he say?" Sherlock murmured.

"He's, uh, happy to meet you." 

Sherlock was looking Benth over, not unlike an inspector. "He's large for a brown," Sherlock murmured.

John beamed. Benth definitely was the largest brown he'd ever seen. Not comparable to a gold, or anything, but he could give the bronzes a run for their money. 

 _Aren't you going to introduce me?_

John blinked. He looked at Benth. _I just did,_ he answered.

Benth rolled his eyes. _No, John. Turn around._  

John glanced at Sherlock who was also turning, a grin slowly creeping across his features. What was he up to? Benth lifted his head and rumbled appreciatively. 

Sherlock moved past John and John turned with him, his eyes going wide. 

"Oh my God." 

Benth nudged John's back. 

"You…you…" John stumbled forward, tumbling into Sherlock, who frowned at him. 

"Really, John?" 

But John wasn't listening. His jaw dropped and he was thankful that the apartment building across the street had a few lights on because they did nothing more than highlight the sparkling, golden scales of one of the most magnificent dragons, no creatures, John had ever seen. He felt faint. 

"You have … you have … a _gold?!"_  

Sherlock smirked broadly as the great beast's head tilted as if in amusement too and Sherlock scratched her eye ridges. John gulped. He hadn't thought...didn't imagine...

He turned his head, glaring at Benth. "You rotter! You knew the whole time didn't you?" Benth rumbled. "I asked you–did you know at _Bart's_? I asked you about a dragon, didn't I?" _You assumed the dragon was male. You did not specify._

"Cheeky bugger," John muttered, turning back to the beast in front of him. The dragon currently rested her enormous head on the ground, her massive eyes focused on him.

The giant eye closest swivelled to look at him and John gulped, starstruck. 

_I am Mirth, gold dragon to dragonrider Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you, John Watson._

_\-----_


	2. Feeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've based my dragons on the Pern series by Anne McCaffrey. Just a note: this is not actually Pern (obviously, haha), so the history is not the same. The hierarchy of dragons and theirdifferent colours are familiar, but otherwise everything else is my AU.
> 
> In Pern, the genders work out differently to this story. I've changed it up for Modern London. ;)

 

Wow. A gold dragon. John had never in all his dreams imagined meeting one.

 

Gold dragons are rare, even in fully populated dragon nations such as the UK. They are the only females that can lay eggs and so are invaluable to the progression and harmony of any weyr. Blue and green females are sterile, which is in essence a blessing, for they are the most amorous of the dragons and had they the ability to produce young, the world would be overrun.

In modern times, weyrs have progressed and become more than just gigantic caverns in mountainsides where dragons reside. Once dragonriders moved away from the mountains, they developed ways of cohabiting with their dragons without limiting either partner's space. Castles and fortresses were given dragon guard towers, farmers built stone bowls and dragons, for the most part, learnt to not be so weyr-bound. They flew far and wide, their riders guiding, learning and teaching. Contrary to mundane beliefs, dragons are social animals. They thrive together and so, even though a dragon and his/her rider may leave the weyr for travels, each dragon is allocated a weyr to always be able to return to. This is one of the oldest laws of dragonkind.

 

 _Go far, fly fast, and know that you are always welcome home_.

 

This tradition is still in use today. The great dragon families have swathes of land all over England. Many of the Irish and Welsh dragons are closely related to each other and have ties with the English ones. Bloodlines run far and wide, but each dragon has one place to call home. In a city like London, it's quite impossible to have a giant castle or farmland dedicated to a weyr of over thirty dragons. Modern men and women make it work, by having high-paying positions in firms that allow for amenities such as dragon perches on their towers. The oldest, most favoured buildings in London are all dragon-bound. If a heritage building resides nearby, you can be sure it's got a dragon or two roosting atop its towers.

 

There were protests back in the eighties about dragon rights and the need for accessible housing for dragonriders, but that hadn't worked in their favour at all. If John was honest, he'd been right up there with the rest of the population saying that all dragonriders were blessed already, couldn't they just fly back to their freaking mansions and live their days out away from the poor, sad, normal people?

 

He wasn't so sure anymore, due to his awkward position in the world of dragonriders, but still. A _gold_ dragon.

 

"You must be joking," John whispered, hand rising automatically. He stopped it, glancing quickly at Sherlock for permission.

The great gold head nudged forward, pressing against John's palm. His eyes were wide. Clearly, she needed no permission to do anything. John wondered if dragon personalities mirrored their riders.

 

"Joking?" Sherlock asked.

John blinked. "No, no, sorry. That was rude. I just … I didn't expect–um– you and, well, a gold. Or anything, really."

 

Sherlock just raised a brow.

 

 _You are amusing, John Watson,_ came the now familiar voice of Mirth in his head. John smiled anyway.

"Mirth, eh? Interesting name."

Sherlock came to stand beside him, hand resting on his gold dragon's great cheek. "Benth told you? People are always amused by that."

"No kidding," John snorted. "Mirth is such a happy name, so indulgent. Nothing like–" _you._

John blushed. Well, that was bordering on rude. Again.

 

Sherlock sighed. John saw how he looked at Mirth. That was the look of a dragonrider, right there. Absolute, undying affection for the great beast. John remembered when he found Benth. It became the happiest day of his life. It usually was for any Impressed dragonrider but particularly so in John's case, being a man of lesser standing. Turning his head, John found Benth's jaw hovering just behind his shoulder.

"Hey, boy," John murmured, hand coming up to stroke that familiar muzzle.

It was a quiet moment. Two giant beasts alongside their riders, meeting on a rooftop in the middle of London on a starlit night. No wonder poems were written about them.

John looked at his new flatmate. Well, he wasn't exactly a beautiful woman with rolling red locks and a body to die for, but eh, what could you do?

 

"She's beautiful," John said, eyeing Mirth. "And bloody hell is she big."

Sherlock turned and smirked. "Golds are meant to be large, John. Then bronzes, then browns." He pointedly looked at Benth, who just rumbled, amused.

"Hey, he's a beaut!" John piped up, arm going under and around Benth's jaw.

Sherlock watched John lean into his dragon. "He is a fine beast, though." John was about to respond, but Sherlock's eyes were elsewhere, thinking about something.

 

John looked at Mirth, with her golden scales, massive tail curled about her and her wings folded back. He honestly was still surprised to see her sitting atop the flats. Why wasn't she in her weyr? Surely Sherlock didn't house her here? It seemed almost blasphemous. It was similar to the concept of the Queen of England going to hang out at a local pub alone.

 

John felt his heart skip a beat. It was very, very uncommon, no, _unheard of_ for a gold to be away from her weyr for very long. Gold dragons are the pinnacle of greatness in any weyr and much pride comes from the people of said weyr when a golden egg is hatched. A gold means prosperity, the furthering of the dragon race. They also lead the weyr, their riders rising immediately in the ranks. So why was Mirth sitting on this dirty flat rooftop instead of home, surrounded by her adoring bronzes?

 

"Um, Sherlock?" John started, unsure. God, was it rude to ask? "Is … is Mirth going to be staying, uh, here? I mean, Benth stays with me, so I'm not sure what the deal is… but she's, uh, well, gold obviously and–"

 

Sherlock looked at him quickly, his brows furrowing. _Uh oh._ "She is _not_ for mating, John. You make sure Benth is aware of that." Sherlock looked angry, possessive even.

 

John's brows shot up, surprised. "Oh God! No, no! I didn't mean that! Jesus, Sherlock, calm yourself. No. I meant, bloody hell," he could feel himself blushing furiously. "I, well, I thought golds had to stay weyr-bound? Or at least, um, live with the other dragons. She has a weyr, yes?"

  
Sherlock was still glowering. "Of course she does! What kind of gold do you think she is?"

 

Now it was John's turn to frown. "All right. Calm down, mate. So she won't be staying here?"

  
Sherlock stroked his dragon, "What gives you that idea? Preposterous. She never leaves my side. So naturally she lives here."

John blinked. "But… she's a gold."

"And?" Sherlock's eyes couldn't have been icier.

"And, well," John breathed. "I guess that's none of my business. Right."

 _This is your home now,_ Mirth said softly.

 _Our home,_ Benth concurred happily. 

John breathed out heavily. Dragon politics: not his area.

 _Human politics,_ Benth corrected. 

"Okay, then," John sighed. "Give me a break, Sherlock. I'm not good with this stuff, all right." Oh how it pained John to say those words. It still stung. Every time he looked at Benth, John felt the ache of worry for his dragon.

Sherlock was looking at him quietly. Mirth rumbled. Sherlock looked at her, then his eyes went wide.

"Oh. I see."

"See what?" John asked.

Sherlock stepped away from his gold and placed both hands on Benth's jaw, looking at the brown dragon, inspecting hime. "Benth has no weyr. Obvious. I should have seen it."

John felt himself pale. He didn't know what to say.

Sherlock was murmuring something, presumably talking to Mirth. Sherlock looked at John, the faint lights from the apartment block over highlighting his cheekbones. "You told me I got one thing wrong about your Benth."

"Uh, yes." John answered dumbly.

"What was it?" Sherlock's gaze was sharp, piercing.

John swallowed. "You said I didn't fly with him because he's old. You assumed that based on _my_ age, that I'm old, so my dragon must be too."

Sherlock didn't look away, but his hands continued to stroke Benth. "I didn't fly him because I enjoy the walk. I've not been dependent on a flier my whole life."

John took a deep breath, "Benth's only eighteen months old."

There. He said it.

 

Sherlock didn't say a thing. He simply looked at the enormous brown dragon instead, eyes flickering over the dragon's face, taking him in.

"You were not Impressed as a young boy…" he murmured in that deep, silky voice. Then he looked back at John, as though seeing him for the first time.

"No," John muttered.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked. "What?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, "Where did you serve?"

Bloody hell, how did he know? "Uh, Afghanistan."

"So, a doctor, in Afghanistan, serving Queen and country. No, a _dragonriding_ Doctor, fighting a war in a foreign country got invalided home. Why? That was bothering me, you know."

"What? I don't follow," John was lost.

Sherlock waved a hand, annoyed. "I observed, John. Clearly dragonrider was the first thing I noticed. Then the doctor, then the soldier. But you have no obvious physical anomalies indicating you were injured. Yet, clearly, you were sent home. Your countenance says you didn't leave willingly, that army life was what you wanted, no, craved. And yet you're in good old jolly London, looking for a flat share. You're barely three months out of Afghanistan, going by your shirt tan."

Bloody. Hell.

"You saw all that? What? Now?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock retorted. "At Bart's. Though to be fair, Mirth has been conferring with Benth a bit since then."

John looked at his brown dragon. _Polite conversation, John._ Benth said.

 _I asked only a few things,_ Mirth added calmly.

"Don't be telling strangers things!" John reprimanded, looking at both dragons.

"My point, _John,_ is that Benth, being so young, must have been the reason for your homecoming. You impressed him just over a year ago. At your age. In Afghanistan, yes?"

John couldn't believe that he'd only met this man today. How could a near stranger know so much in so short a period of time? He hadn't even told his family all these details.

"You… wow." John couldn't say more. He was struck dumb.

"The army was not very open to the concept of a dragonrider, I take it?"

John shook his head slowly, recalling the reactions from his army mates. It wasn't really an issue, per se, just a horrible inconvenience. "Apparently you can't have an overprotective dragon hovering over a team of soldiers without giving away your position." John stroked Benth's eye ridge uneasily.

"He couldn't remain at base camp?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

John sighed, "No. He was too young and we also had to find ways of feeding him. Arid desert is not exactly a feeding ground for a hatchling bursting at the seams."

John expected the question to come; the one about how he'd even come into contact with a dragon hatchling. It was so uncommon for a commoner to Impress a dragon, that most people assumed criminal activity of some sort. The British Government had given him enough questioning to last him a lifetime. "Let's just say that re-entry into the UK wasn't the simplest operation ever."

"Fascinating," Sherlock said, admiration blossoming on his face as he turned to look at Benth once more. "What a magnificent beast you are."

Benth practically purred at the praise. _You soft-bellied baby,_ John said to Benth privately.

"But really, John, I must reinforce my earlier comment," Sherlock sounded all business again.

"Which one in particular?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted, "All of them. Mirth is not for mating. Are we clear?"

John blinked. "Yes. Why is this a problem? I agreed."

"It's not exactly up to you, is it?" Sherlock snapped back hotly.

"Um," John shrugged.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It makes sense now, of course. Benth's too young. He hasn't mated or flown a gold." That was a statement, not a question.

"Not that I know of," John shrugged again.

Sherlock eyed him like he was daft. "John, you really have no idea, have you?"

"Probably not, Sherlock," John answered, annoyed now. "Not all of us are weyr-bred princes. I don't have a weyrleader breathing down my neck, teaching me the do's and don'ts."

Sherlock glared, "Educate yourself then. Mirth is NOT to mate. I will not allow it. And you would know if Benth had."

"How?" John queried. No one had ever been very specific.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Trust me, you'll know when he does."

 _I have not flown a female, John,_ Benth added. _So I cannot help_. "And what about you?" John asked Mirth aloud, "Or is it rude to even ask? I don't know anymore."

 _No bronze has ever caught me,_ Mirth practically preened. _They are all dull and slow._ Her wings fluttered and rippled with pride.

John nodded.

"No one has ever flown Mirth," Sherlock said, as though Mirth had not already said so. "Not while she's mine."

So, forever, then. Right.

John made a face. Why did Sherlock keep repeating what Mirth said. He could hear her perfectly well, thank you.  Was that strange? Judging by Sherlock's need to communicate for her… probably. Crap.

\---

John settled into to 221b fairly well. Sherlock was bizarre to say the least. The first time the police had shown up at 2am had spooked him. Seems Sherlock had more than a vague interest in murder, crime and dastardly deeds. John was roped along as 'assistant' on his first outing with the 'consulting detective', as he called himself. John got first-hand experience with Sherlock's withering, biting remarks when he met Anderson. What a tosser. Anderson, not Sherlock. No, the Holmes seemed unstoppable at times. John learnt quickly that he'd better keep up or get himself killed.

Otherwise, life on Baker Street went along swimmingly.

It was a quiet Sunday morning, a few days after moving in, when John declared he was off to feed Benth.

"Good idea," Sherlock murmured, eyes never leaving his cell. "Mirth's been grumbling. A good feeding might help settle her."

And so it was that John's first visit to the local feeding ground was spent with Sherlock and his gold. John didn't need to fly with Benth. He and Sherlock simply walked the few blocks over, the dragons flying ahead.

The feeding ground was nothing like the one John was used to. A large, dipping park was fenced off, blocked from view to most pedestrians and traffic. The river flowed beside it, lapping at the small shoreline scooped out for the dragons and animals to drink from. There was a wider array of animals here. No stringy goats. Full-bodied sheep, cattle and various fowl meandered in separate paddocks. The man at the entrance read John the riot act, ensuring John knew all the rules before entering, a whopping fee handed over in exchange. John felt his gaze run over John, his outfit and then his dragon. Not a typical dragonrider, no. No one this man had ever seen before at any rate.

"Bloody hell," John grunted, watching his money disappear. Nevermind, the money he saved on commuting would go toward this. Then there were the rules and regs of making use of a space such as this.

First rule: No animals in heat. Bloodletting wasn't permitted at the feeding grounds because it would agitate any other dragons in the area. Once a female was ready for mating, any aavailable males would be roused and that just wasn't done. Not in the heart of the city, for decency's sake.

Second rule: Dragonriders had to manage their dragon's appetite. It would cost extra to have a dragon airlifted out because it had gorged itself to the point of not being able to fly.

Third rule: No trampling of the paddocks unnecessarily.

"So you have to fly in, grab your food, and fly out onto the grass, you hear?" John murmured to Benth.

 _Yes, yes, all right. Can I eat now? Ravenous!_ Benth answered impatiently.

"Off you go," John sighed.

He watched proudly as Benth ambled after Mirth, who was already flying in to catch a fat turkey.

Sherlock showed him to a bench where they could sit and keep an eye on the dragons.

"Not many here," John pointed out. There were only two small greens down by the water with their teenage riders. "Training?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, also watching the boys. Their trainer was standing with them, explaining how to bathe their animals. Growing dragons needed regularly scrubs as they outgrew their skin. An unhappy dragon wasn't worth living with.

John couldn't help noticing how the boys looked. Healthy, nice, expensive riding gear, a trainer and everything. Rich kids.

"Was Mirth trained when she was young?" John asked.

Sherlock sniffed loudly and crossed his legs, ankle over ankle. God, he had long legs. "Unfortunately, yes. Mindless task, really. As if I couldn't control her needs. Honestly, how ridiculous. She was the best trained dragon in the lot."

John nodded, "So, there were a lot of, uh, weyrlings?"

Sherlock's eyes slid towards John. "Mmm."

"If you don't want to answer, just change the topic." John huffed.

"I've been told not to. Apparently abrupt changes of topic are frowned upon, don't you know, John?"

John chuckled. Okay, that was funny. "Would it be a stretch to assume that it wasn't so much training Mirth, but more about training you? I bet you were a brat."

Sherlock made a face. "I don't what you mean, John."

The two sat in silence for a bit, watching their dragons feed. Benth was loving it. He rolled around in the river a bit, sending great waves splashing against the sand.

"At least they get along," John murmured, more to himself.

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Why wouldn't they? Mirth is perfectly amenable."

"I know that, Sherlock," John said, "It's just … Benth doesn't get to see other dragons. Never saw one until we got back to England."

"You think he may be socially stunted."

John frowned, "No. Jesus, I just don't want him to, you know, be left out. He needs to be around dragons. He shouldn't be alone."

"Alone isn't all bad," Sherlock said plainly.

 _I have you,_ John heard Benth say.

 _And me and Sherlock,_ Mirth chimed in.

John smiled. Well, that was nice.

 

\---

 

Mirth and Benth rested after eating, taking in the limited sunlight afforded them. John had gone over to the local bakery and bought scones for Sherlock and himself. They sat on that bench for a while, just watching.

"Can you call him over?" Sherlock said softly, eyes not leaving the dragons.

"Hm?" John said, mouth full. "What?"

Sherlock stood, "No, I suppose they should rest. Lazy louts."

Sherlock strode off towards the sleeping beasts, leaving John to scramble. "Wait a bit."

Sherlock walked right up to Benth and began to circle him.

What was he up to? John wondered. Benth cracked an eye open, following the tall detective as he came to stop next to the great big head.

"You really are a big boy, aren't you?" Sherlock murmured. "Especially for a brown."

John folded his arms and stood alongside Sherlock. It felt weird, as though Sherlock was appraising his dragon for resale or something.

  
Sherlock leaned in and scratched at Benth's eye ridge. The huge eye rolled in happiness and Benth rumbled deep in his chest. "He is not an English-bred brown," Sherlock said.

"Er…" John didn't have an answer. "Dunno."

Sherlock's hand stroked around the great eye, over the scaling there, up to the brow ridge. "This colouration. I've never seen it before. He has blue scales around his eyes, not unlike an Arabian Blue-crested."

 

John just blinked. "A what?"

  
Sherlock huffed and frowned at John. "A breed found in the oriental regions; Not very common at all. Benth here must be one of the few browns from that breed left. It explains his size."

"To be honest, I can't tell you much," John shrugged, eyes flicking between the gold dragon to his left and his own brown. Yes, Mirth was enormous, but not surprisingly so. Was Benth really oddly large? "I don't have his bloodline history. No way of knowing."

Sherlock's gaze met his own and John swallowed. He could feel the man's next question. Sherlock was far from stupid.

But it never came.

"What you should know, John, is that when a dragon breed starts to dwindle it has to compensate. With gold dragons becoming few and far between, that will lessen the possibility of more bronzes. I'm willing to bet that the bronze population wasn't up to scratch and as evolution saw fit, it allowed for the browns and possibly blues and greens to increase in size, to give competition to the bronzes and further the species. Dragons are so inbred nowadays, it's a wonder they don't all have crippling defects."

Huh. That sort of made sense. He'd heard that families exchanged the rights to interbreed with other weyrs. Then again, the weyrs in England were all connected already.

"He is a fine specimen indeed." Sherlock murmured.

 _I am_ , Benth purred. _I am beautiful._

John laughed. "Yes, and so modest."

Sherlock frowned but John just shook his head in amusement.

 

\---

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Dramatics

The pamphlet they gave John when he'd arrived back in England had been government-issued and very straightforward. The emigration and immigration of foreign dragons in and around the UK was closely monitored after all. Efficiency was key. 

If he was fair, trying to keep a lid on flying animals was a nightmare. But it was worse than that because, of course, dragons don't just have the ability of flight. They possess a unique and awe-inspiring mode of transport that caused far more trouble for international agencies than a few winged beasts cavorting across the sea. In the blink of an eye, a dragon can transport itself across time and space, into any place, just at a thought. What is needed to fulfil this is a visual request by a rider. An image of the destination is passed on to the dragon and the dragon just _goes_. The space of darkness and nothingness is known as _between._ It is cold, devoid of light, air and any semblance of life. If a dragon pulls it off correctly, it's over in seconds, bam, you're home. If something goes wrong, both rider and dragon are lost forever. Governments laid down vigorous laws about the exit and entry of dragons. Like any other international law, it is difficult to uphold fully, because a dragon that appears suddenly in a field in Northumberland may not make as much impact as one that mistakenly pops up in the Underground during rush hour. Accidents do happen. John, unfortunately had never heard of the inherent dangers of appearing in unexpected places. The pamphlet outlined all these details, and John will always remember how his blood ran cold the first time he read it. He and Benth had, naturally, flown in, not yet trained fully in _between._  

Because it was so rare for a dragonrider to not come from dragonnblood, it made sense for the British Government to not focus on such training. The minimal information available was clean-cut and to the point: A quick history on dragons, what their diet should consist of and cursory laws on what was and wasn't illegal when involving a flying lizard. Also, penalties were explained, illegal possession of dragon eggs made clear and locations/organizations typed out in case of emergencies.

Veterinary services came at a high cost, as did dragon training. John hoped he wouldn't need the prior and couldn't afford the latter. So it was that he gathered his dragonlore from anyone who would pass it on. Fellow soldiers, his sister, the shopkeeper down the street, they'd all had an opinion. 

Sure, he'd always known about the oddities of dragons and their riders, as any worldly man would, but it was the intricacies that he missed. As there were societal expectations when having tea with the Queen, so there would be between dragonriders of a weyr. Custom handshakes? Bizarre catchphrases? Who knew? John would have to learn it all from scratch. And so he did. He tried over the few months to read up on a lot. But boy was there a lot. 

Feeding habits, illness and typical injuries. Temperament control, flying lessons, lessons _between._ He was the Dragons for Dummies extraordinaire. 

The most talked about and most prolific part of dragon culture, however, was the mating rituals. Lordy, lordy, John had had _enough_ of people nudging him and waggling their eyebrows when they found out he had a dragon. His army mates had had a right old time egging him on about the wicked wiles of dragonrider sexuality. Dragonriders could and _did_ have relationships. They were not bound to date or marry dragonfolk, in fact, most found wives and husbands outside of their weyrs. The technicalities of living in a weyr, though, could get in the way of a consistent, non-dragon relationship. 

This is what John was pondering as he sat slouched in his chair at 221B. It'd been a long day at the practice and he'd worn himself out with the chickenpox-ridden children from the local daycare; So many screaming babies and toddlers, so many suckers gone. 

He'd come home to an empty flat. John wondered where Sherlock was off to most days. He certainly wasn't keeping himself busy by cleaning up after himself. The kitchen looked like a tip and the staircase has dusty bootprints all over it. Not what John wanted to come home to. 

He assumed the consulting detective was out 'detecting'. He was insufferable if not.

Then again, what if he wasn't? What if Sherlock Holmes, cold-hearted robot diva, was out on the pull? Lord knows he could snag a lady or three if he tried. Throw in 'dragonrider' and he could probably take the whole pub home. Well, the legends said, a dragonrider in bed was …  probably rather amazing.

John wasn't sure, honestly. He felt the same as he did sexually before he'd Impressed Benth. He still eyed up the ladies when he had the chance. He still believed in the prowess of the individual man, gained from experience. John was fairly experienced and even though sex had been an important part of his life for most of his life, he felt himself curbing his needs. Benth didn't mind, but it did bother John a bit every time he'd wanted bring a woman home. Not that that had happened much. Twice, to be exact. 

So John wasn't on the lookout much anymore. He never mentioned Benth and he never brought girls back to his. It was frustrating and a little debilitating, if he was honest. "Leftover grief from coming back from Afghanistan." That's what his one-time, army-ordered therapist had said. 

He couldn't imagine living among other dragonfolk and trying to keep a family together. Everyone knew that when the queen dragon flew for mating, it was all over. Any available male dragon would take chase, vying for the moment of glory. In the old days, the mate of the queen would become weyrleader automatically. Now, not so much. Politics in a weyr were as complicated as the House of Commons. Not just anyone could or would want to lead. John had heard that the oldest weyrs tried to uphold this tradition, but it was falling out of favour, for obvious reasons. Too disruptive and unnecessary. 

Imagine being married to a non-dragonrider, then being swept up into the mating flight because your dragon was randy? Crap, what a nightmare! Weyrfolk were a hardy or perhaps foolhardy bunch, he thought.

 

_They're back_ , Benth said inside John's head.

 

"About bloody time," John grumbled. At least he got a three minute warning these days. Benth had an interesting tendency to not update John on the Baker Street area. John had taught him better, damnit. Eyes all around, that was the deal.

"Still raining?" John asked.

_No,_ Benth answered. _No breeze, just wet._

John was glad they'd rearranged the rooftop. The old awning that had been falling apart was now fixed to the neighbouring block's wall and extending out and around a corner of the roof, giving the dragons some coverage. Mrs. Hudson was talking to a couple contractors about 'dragon-friendly' renovations but the prices were terrifying. John would work to make Benth's home easier to live in, but he honestly wondered how Sherlock hadn't done more with the place for Mirth. It was scandalous. 

_She doesn't always sleep here,_ Benth added in.

True, she was off some nights with Sherlock. Perhaps she kept the same sleep hours as her rider? Sherlock hardly slept at all. 

John's phone buzzed. He picked it up off the coffee table.

 

_\- Home. Get your coat. Case. -SH_

 

John rolled his eyes and typed.

 

_\- No. Dinner first_.

 

It buzzed almost immediately after that.

 

_\- Not hungry. Meet outside. -SH_

_\- Just because you're a hollowed out shell of a human doesn't mean I have to starve. You still haven't replaced the spoilt lamb chops._

_\- Case. Then takeaway. Brokering deals, here, John. -SH_

John rubbed his brow.

\- _Fine. But you're paying._

 

He got up wearily and slipped into his coat.

\---

 

The ground was still cold and wet, which only made John more aware of the time. They'd taken a cab to the other side of town to meet with the police.

"Well?" came the gruff voice of D.I. Lestrade. John had met him before and was surprised to find out he'd been 'working' with Sherlock on and off for the last few years. For a man as normal as the D.I. to be tolerating Sherlock on a regular basis, he sure was patient.

Donovon stood a few metres away, arms crossed. John was thankful for that. Her whiplash tongue always got him riled.

Sherlock was bent over, inspecting the body of a man in his mid-thirties. The victim's eyes were cold and wide, staring up at the cloudy night sky. He had a gaping gash in his chest, exposing sternum and ribs. So, a pleasant evening image, then.

"He's not even listening!" John heard Donovon blurt out angrily.

"Hold on!" Lestrade blurted back over his shoulder. Quieter, he said, "Hurry up, lads. The boys'll be here soon to pick up the body."

Sherlock stood and gave Lestrade an icy glare. "Again, we're here after your morons have trampled every shred of evidence. You know, detective, sometimes I wonder at the lack of persistence around here."

"Sherlock," John warned.

Lestrade looked about ready to burst.

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "Murder, obviously."

"Yeah, but who? How?" Lestrade asked, rubbing at his face. "No weapon, no witnesses, not even any I.D. on the bloke."

"No fingertips and no teeth," John murmured.

Sherlock flicked his coat collar up. "With the rain, half the evidence has been destroyed. Lestrade, get me the results on gun residue. Copies, if you insist."

"You really think a gun was used?" Lestrade looked cynically over the sopping corpse.

"No, of course not," Sherlock huffed. "Your results will come back negative for gun residue. Oh, and drugs. This man was not from these parts."

"How-" John began but was interrupted by the return of the forensics team.

"Ugh," Sherlock growled.

"He's here?" Anderson cried out, coming to stop next to Donovon. "Why? Again? This is ridiculous!"

John could practically _feel_ Sherlock tensing. _Uh oh._

"Sherlock," he said but didn't get there.

"Anderson, shut up," Sherlock bit out, taking a look down at the corpse again.

"No, I will not! Lestrade, really? This shouldn't be happening and you know it! The likes of this idiot actually figuring anyt-"

"I said, shut it," Sherlock said, spinning to glare at the other man. "You can have your precious remains, Anderson, oh and do give my regards to your wife." His eyes flicked menacingly towards Donovon.

"Listen, you freakish prat," Anderson yipped, face colouring. "You may think because the rest of the people around you bow down and kiss your arse doesn't mean we, the professionals, have to. Your sort just like to dabble, right?" 

John tensed and Sherlock's gaze hardened. "Oh fuck," John murmured.

Seemingly uncaring of Sherlock's imminent blowout, Anderson continued. "No, no, it's not all right. This bloody bullshit has to stop. Freaks like you and the rest of your archaic rubbish can just get lost. We're trained, you know that? _Trained professionals._ We do this for a living, not for some sick obsession with the death of the commonfolk."

"Anderson," Lestrade snapped.

But it was too late. Sally screamed suddenly, frightfully, falling back as the whiplash of cold wind smacked John's back. With a great gust, and the ominous thud of a great mass landing behind him, John spun around, almost tumbling over the dead man.

"Holy shit!" Anderson squealed, scrabbling away from them as Mirth's bellow reverberated ominously around them.

"Do I have to remind you this is a crime scene!" Lestrade yelled, also taking a few startled steps back.

The great gold dragon had appeared from _between_ , alighting behind Sherlock, her great neck raised high and wings flown wide.

"This is what I'm talking about!" Anderson wailed from behind Donovon. "Tyranny from the likes of him!"

Sherlock bristled and Mirth whined, her head leaning over her rider like a protector.

"Spare me your jibberish," Sherlock said, his cold, dark voice hollow. "If not for the likes of me, you wouldn't have caught any of the handful of murderers in the last two years. Tyranny? Coercion, perhaps? Sound better? Stop wasting your breath on pithy insults and pathetic excuses for why you are terrible at your job. You need me, I do not need you. There is a marked difference in our being here, _Anderson._ "

John hoped he never heard Sherlock say his name with such venom.

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade breathed.

John took a breath. "Uh, yeah, you might want to calm down," he waved a hand at the great beast behind him, smiling. Donovon and Anderson's eyes widened.

"She's hungry too," Sherlock added, which forced John to control his smirk. Shrieks and wails followed that statement and even Lestrade had to roll his eyes. What a bunch.

"Off with you," Lestrade growled. "You'll get your results if you and your," he waved his hand at Mirth, "friend haven't messed up all the remaining evidence."

Sherlock snorted. "Don't patronise me, Lestrade." 

And with that, Sherlock turned, indicating for Mirth to lower her head. He lithely climbed up onto her strong ridge and without even a glance at John, winked out of sight. 

The gaping silence that followed felt like an eternity. 

"Right-o," John heard Lestrade mutter, before calling the forensics team back. They'd all scattered in fear of the dragon and hidden behind the vehicles nearby.

John just stared at the spot Sherlock had vacated.

He turned and looked at the dead man at his feet.

"Dramatic, much?" he said, annoyance blossoming in his chest.

"Yeah, well, that woke me up," Lestrade said, scrubbing at his hair. He looked John over. "You really, uh, helping him then?"

John shrugged, a bit put out. "Apparently. Who bloody knows."

Lestrade came to stand on John's side of the body as the crew shuffled in. "He's an odd one, I'll give you that. But to be expected. Off his rocker, but mind like a battering ram. Pity about the background."

"What?" John uttered.

Lestrade blinked and looked at him. "Well, it's bloody weird having, you know, one of him about, innit?"

"Dragonrider, you mean?" John asked.

Lestrade sighed. "Yeah. I mean, not that I'm not grateful, but it's a bit, well, awful to see such a privileged git like him swanning about being brilliant and having a flying lizard to boot." 

John clenched his jaw.

"Ah, I've annoyed you. Don't worry, what was it? John? John, he's good. He's a good man, that Holmes. I need his mind, bloody hell. But one day he'll be a great man. Folks like us just won't ever get it, right? Just don't want his dragon overshadowing that. " 

Lestrade slapped him on the back before heading out towards his officers on the perimeter. 

"No," John murmured to himself. How the hell was he getting home? "Wouldn't want that."

  

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Sherlock needs to learn some manners. And John's still hungry, damnit! Molly returns, yay!


	4. Pressure to perform

The cab ride home cost John forty-five minutes of his life and far too much money. He was seething when he re-entered 221b. 

When he flung open the lounge door, he found Sherlock lying on his back on the settee, hands pressed together under his chin, contemplating. 

 _He's been like that for a while,_ Mirth said. John didn't care. 

"You sodding piece of shite," he said loudly, flicking his wet coat off onto the armrest. "You couldn't have waited five seconds? You couldn't have, oh I don't know, given me a lift? It's raining again, if you noticed! You left me in bloody hells-where London with a pack of irate police officers after pulling a, a stunt like that with Mirth! Do you have any idea how stupid and annoying you are?" 

Sherlock's eyes slid to him slowly. That bothered John more than it should have. He wanted to scare the living daylights out of the taller man; wanted to teach him a lesson, maybe. But no, nothing bothered the detective. 

"Why did you take a cab?" Sherlock asked, his voice deep and unruffled.

John's fist clenched at his side. "Why indeed, Sherlock? Go on, deduce me if you will. Why the bloody fuck would I require a lift back home? Lord knows I could've walked! Or maybe gotten a ride from my flatmate?" 

Sherlock's brows rose and he sat up calmly. Only then did John notice that the man had discarded his suit jacket and had his white shirtsleeves rolled up. There was a faint sheen on Sherlock's brow, as if from too much thinking. "I went _between_ , John. You could have called on Benth. Why is it my job to figure out how you could get home? It's obvious you should be using your dragon." 

John blinked. Arrogant sod. "You based that on your own assumptions and experience, you prat. Give me a heads-up, why don't you?" He bit those words out. 

Sherlock frowned. "Are you actually enraged at _me_ because you haven't the tenacity to fly between? Don't blame me, John." 

"I ask for common courtesy, Sherlock!" John yelled. "Did you ever learn manners or are they just too far beyond you? And I'm still bloody hungry! You were supposed to get dinner. That was over three hours ago! You knew we'd be home late and you knew you'd be taking Mirth home. A little consideration is all I need!" 

Sherlock looked affronted then. John didn't care, he felt that if he didn't go to his room soon, he was going to pop. Punching your flatmate wasn't really a good lesson in manners, now was it? 

 _John…_ came Benth's whine from upstairs. 

"You know what, Sherlock? Forget it! Just bloody well forget it. I'm off to bed. Forget this bull." 

And with that, he stomped off to the stairs. 

"John," Sherlock said, following to the foot of the stairs. 

"WHAT?" John bellowed. 

"There's Thai on the kitchen table. When you're ready." 

John kept stomping up the stairs, but he felt his face warming and his frown deepening. "Well!" He blurted, now completely enraged and embarrassed all at once. "Bully for you!"

 

\---

 

John took a quick shower, pulled on his pyjamas and thought about just flopping in bed. _John …_ came Benth's voice again. _You can come say good night._

 That made John wince. He'd barely seen Benth at all today. He left his room, pulled down the rooftop stairs and clambered out into the night.

It was damp but not too chilly. Cursing his lack of slippers, he hopped over to find Benth.

And there he was, the daft thing, all curled up and half-asleep. Mirth was nearby, fully alert, her gaze reaching across the city, away from John.

"Hallo, boy," John murmured, coming up to Benth's side and rubbing at a leg. "Sorry about all that."

 _You shouldn't yell,_ Benth muttered. _It makes me anxious._

John made a face and leaned against the great beast. "I know. Apologies."

 _Sherlock didn't mean to forget you,_ John heard Mirth say. _He is not like everyone else. He thinks a lot about other things. Don't be mad at him, John._

"Easier said than done," John replied. He heard her move away from the edge of the roof and lumber closer to him and Benth.

 _Do not take Sherlock lightly,_ Mirth said, her great head coming to hover in front of John. _He is my rider._

John almost chuckled. Seemed about right. The only creature able to love Sherlock Holmes had to be soul-bound to him.

 _Mirth was upset too,_ Benth mentioned. _Yelling is not helpful, John._

"Lord, all right!" John laughed. "I don't need a pity party from a pair of sleepy dragons. I apologize. I was angry, but rightly so, yes?"

Mirth rumbled and turned her head aside.

"Exactly," John chuckled. "Sherlock doesn't have to mean well to not fuck up. He should learn though."

He managed to rub Mirth's muzzle and pat Benth's leg at the same time, like two giant horses, they practically nuzzled him into complacency.

\--- 

Over the following weeks, John settled in more. He wouldn't say he'd had fewer arguments with Sherlock, but John felt he was becoming to understand that odd man. 

It was five months after John had moved to Baker Street when he found his patience being tested once again. 

They were at St. Bart's. Sherlock was being absolutely insufferable. First he'd blamed John for distracting him when he himself had dropped a petri dish filled with some garish yellow blobs. 

The consulting detective had been tetchy all morning. His deep blue shirt had the sleeves rolled up and his dark curls seemed to be extra tamed, as though Sherlock had thought to pre-emptively combat his later frustrations with the world. He wasn't one to rub his hands over his hair, but John was overly aware of how those long fingers were now scraping roughly through the dark tendrils. 

Molly had fluttered about them, trying to placate Sherlock. John had, over the past months, come to realize that the poor girl was undoubtedly in love with the sodding bastard. Poor lass.

She got nothing but annoyance and scorn from the gold dragonrider. Though, if John sat down and thought about it, he knew that Molly liked Sherlock for who he was. She didn't seem fazed at all by his dragonrider abilities. John hadn't ever heard her ask about Mirth, even. That just made John sadder for her. Poor girl had fallen for the physical embodiment of a brain synapse, a soulless transport with a viper's tongue. She wasn't interested in his dragon or his bloodline. She was only interested in him. 

John found that both disheartening and sweet, mostly because Sherlock couldn't have cared one jot. If he was aware of Molly's fascination, he didn't care. He made use of Molly and her mortuary access, and her scientific knowledge too. She may not have been able to think or process as fast as Sherlock, but at least she could manage tests and results for him. And she procured corpses! 

But today, John didn't think anything Molly could do would settle Sherlock down. He was just incorrigible. 

"This isn't working!" Sherlock hissed, pushing another petri dish aside. "Why not? It has to be there!" 

John just sighed and tried to tidy up in the detective's wake. 

"Dead man, no evidence whatsoever. Police don't have anything at all. Not even DNA tests are any good. This man is invisible! No missing person report, no family looking for him. What a brave killer, leaving him to be found. But no!" Sherlock slammed his hand down on the table. His brow was dotted with sweat and his eyes were glassy. "A clever killer! Knew the body wouldn't be identified. Brazen arrogance!" 

"Sherlock, listen," John said calmly. "You've been at this case forever. Why not drop it for a bit, focus on another one. Lestrade hasn't much hope for this one anyway." 

Sherlock's eyes flicked towards him. "Lestrade has no idea what he's doing." 

"Give the man some credit," John sighed.

 _John,_ came Benth's sudden voice. _John, they're going to leave. We have to go with them. Mirth wants us to go._

John blinked. What?

No sooner had Benth warned him, than Sherlock threw his hands in the air. "Now? REALLY?" he all but snarled.

He picked up his suit jacket, coat and scarf and pushed past Molly to get out of the room. John gave her a quick wave, "I guess we're off. Sorry, Molly!" 

John jogged after the man. "Where to?" John asked as they stepped into the elevator. Sherlock looked at him and gritted his teeth. "Weyr." 

John blinked. "What? Whose weyr? Yours? Your family? Why?" 

Sherlock just grumbled as they stepped out onto the top floor and made for the roof exit. 

Sherlock was moving too fast, already halfway across the rooftop, towards Mirth who was stretching her wings. 

"Sherlock, wait!" John cried out. "What's the problem?" 

"You're not coming, John," Sherlock said sharply. He lithely climbed up onto Mirth who stood tall again. He did look faintly remorseful though, which made John's brows crease. Mirth's great neck wound closer as Sherlock looked east. 

 _Get on!_ Benth cried in his head. _Quickly, John! They're going_ between. 

John gave Benth a double-take. "What? Why can't–"

He was interrupted by Mirth's voice in his head. _Please follow, John._ Mirth said calmly. _Sherlock will not ask, but I will._

And then both rider and dragon winked out of sight. 

"Jesus," John huffed as he hastily clambered onto Benth. "What in the bloody hell is going on?" 

 _Mirth flies to mate,_ Benth answered. 

John's heart thudded in his chest. WHAT?

Holy crap, he hadn't thought about that. That explained a lot. _We go there,_ Benth interrupted, and John was supplied with an image obviously handed to Benth via Mirth. _We go between._  

"I-I don't know, Benth," John said. "We said we'd try again later in the week. This is a bit much. How far is this place?" 

 _Last time we were scared, John. Now we know where and who we're going with. We go between._  

John took a deep breath and held on tightly to Benth's riding ridge. Right. Well, Mirth, a golden queen, had asked them to go. So, oh hell! 

"Off then," John said, placing the image of lush green fields and a wooded forest in his mind. Benth grabbed onto it and they were gone. 

\---  

He hated _between_. John and Benth had had to test the method when they'd landed back in the UK. It had not gone well. All he recalled was the hazy image the government official had given him and the achingly cold moments of being stuck in the darkness. They'd been there too long. John's skin crawled at the moment he realized he and Benth may have died there. Thankfully they had reappeared at the testing ground, but not without the two of them tumbling from the sky, way off the mark. Their injuries were minimal, as they'd only been less than a mile above the ground, but the shock of their fall and the keening wail of Benth had stayed with John. The image had been too fuzzy in his head. He blamed himself for not cementing the exact position properly. The government official had berated John on his inability to ensure his and his dragon's safety. John didn't need the harsh words. 

But this time, Benth was right. Mirth had sent an image as clear as day and John made sure he got the points correct. They couldn't mess this up. 

They exploded into the air above a woodland and great expanses of countryside. He thought it strange that Sherlock would go to the middle of nowhere for Mirth's flight, but Benth had wheeled around, showing John that just behind them was an actual home. 

John eyed the place up as Benth wheeled downwards. A massive light-stoned building was set at the end of a long, winding driveway. The building was shaped liked a sharply-pointed U. It was two-storeyed and had a wide courtyard between the walls and immense battlements along its roof. Along the walls were set great arched hollows. Dragon-built indeed. Those arches could easily house one dragon each. Along with the sweeping land about the building, John could imagine this to be a very great weyr indeed. 

Benth wheeled closer and came to land in the courtyard. The Watch-dragon bugled a greeting and Benth responded in kind. Mirth was nowhere to be seen. 

"Lordy, she's quick," John said, hastily slipping from Benth's neck.

 _Others are coming,_ Benth said. _She is out at the feeding grounds already._  

"Shit, are you going to fly her?" John hadn't prepared for this. What was he supposed to do? This wasn't even his weyr, for God's sake! Was he intruding? ' _Hallo, just thought I'd pop in and have sex with the resident queen. Ta!'_

 _No,_ Benth answered calmly. 

"Then why–" John cried. 

_Mirth wants us here. Not for her, she said. For Sherlock._

John was beyond confused. Before he could ask more, he noticed two bronzes appearing in the sky. 

A woman was walking towards him. She was beautiful but had her eyes glued to her mobile. 

"John Watson?" she asked, finally looking up.

"Er–"

"Follow me," she said curtly, turning on her heel. 

He didn't argue. 

The house was white and clean inside, with a great number of doors leading off both sides. John followed the woman into a room on the far corner of the right hallway. She stood aside and waved him in before turning away. Was she the queen around here? 

Inside, John was met by the back of a tall man who was looking out of one of the tall, expansive windows. 

"Doctor Watson," the man said, his voice cool. He turned and John couldn't help but feel wholly out of place. The man was in a three-piece suit, not a hair out of place, back ramrod straight. 

"Uh, hello," John answered calmly.

"I'm surprised to see you here," the man said with a smile that was less than friendly. "I take it you came with Sherlock?" 

John frowned, "I think that's obvious isn't it? This is his weyr?" 

The smile widened a fraction. "You don't know? Yes, this is Sherlock and Mirth's home." He tilted his head at the mention of the gold dragon. "And about time they made it back. He was cutting it close, as always." 

John frowned some more. "All right. Well, sorry for the intrusion." 

The man tapped his umbrella on the ground. "Mmm, I'm sure. Tell me, Doctor, what is your _relationship_ with Sherlock Holmes?" 

"I don't have one. We're flatmates." 

"And yet your dragon lies every night with his gold. Oh, don't misunderstand me. I'm assured that your brown is not yet mature for mating flights. Thankfully." 

"Thankfully?" John said, "What exactly is that supposed to mean?" 

The man came closer, smile not slipping for a moment. "Mirth is a great beast, is she not, Doctor? One of the fastest and strongest this weyr has ever seen." 

"Sure," John said warily. 

"Sherlock has always been clear in his disregard for weyr life. He forgets he has a gold sometimes and also forgets himself." 

John didn't think even for one second that Sherlock could forget Mirth. This man obviously didn't know Sherlock well. 

"My point, Doctor, is that I do my best to keep an eye on them both. There's nothing to be gained by flying fruitlessly all over London with a beast so precious."

John wondered if he meant Mirth or Sherlock at this point.

"I would like updates on them if possible. Would you be willing in that regard?" 

"No." 

The man blinked, "Already so loyal? My, my."

"No," John bristled. "Why does it matter what Sherlock gets up to anyway? He's a grown man."

The other man sighed and turned away.

"I worry about him." 

Right. John could believe that. Not. 

A sharp bellow caught John's attention. More dragons had arrived. Good Lord, how many bronzes were in this freakin' weyr? 

He heard a flurry of footsteps and voices. 

"Mycroft, sir!" Three men barged into the room, breathless and red in the face. They wore regimental Bronze fight uniforms. "You called us in. Mirth flies?" 

The man they called Mycroft turned with a bitter look on his face. "Yes, of course." 

The three men grimaced. "Then where is he?" 

"You mean Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. "Locked away in his room, as always. Don't you ever learn?" 

One of the men rubbed a hand through his sweaty hair. "Not complaining, sir. Just, you know, frustrated. It complicates us too. My Nereth is already ready to go." 

"Spare me the details," Mycroft said sharply. "And get out." 

John watched the three riders leave, all grumbling. So they were expecting to fly Mirth? That bothered John a lot more than he'd expected. They were just random bronzes looking to try for the affection of such a beautiful gold? Laughable. And none seemed to want to be near Sherlock anyway.

"Is he really locked in his room?" John asked Mycroft. "I thought the queen's rider had to be … around the bronze riders?" 

Mycroft eyed him for a moment. "You really aren't weyrbred are you? No, Sherlock is not amenable to such behaviour. He loathes the idea of sharing his bed with whoever flies Mirth. I suppose he's lucky that she flies too fast for them, time after time." This seemed to aggravate the man. 

John rubbed at his mouth, thoughts flying. "So he just avoids them? Isn't it more … pleasurable with another rider? It's not like it's a marriage proposal or anything."

"Heavens, no," Mycroft laughed. "Though it is uncommon for a rider to stay out of the mess his dragon gets into. Sherlock never was one for tradition." 

 _John_ , Benth said in his head. _Mirth. The bronzes have followed her to the feeding grounds. I can see it all._ John was supplied with images from Benth. In the distance, Mirth was tackling a sheep, her wails going up every time she tried to rip off a hank of meat. _She must only blood the kill_ , Benth explained, like he knew anything. John snorted. _Sherlock keeps good control,_ Benth said admirably. 

Wait, what? Sherlock was in his room suffering through the throes of his dragon's heat and was still trying to keep her in check? 

"Where is he?" John asked Mycroft, voice rough.

Mycroft raised a brow. "Your brown is not flying her."

"So?" John all but spat out, "Where's Sherlock? Is he okay?" 

Mycroft blinked. "Upstairs. Last door in the north-east. It will be locked." 

"Fine," John uttered, turning to run at the stairs. 

"Interesting," Mycroft murmured to himself.

 

\---

 

"Sherlock?" John bellowed as he ran down the hallway. Benth sent more images his way. Mirth had taken off, leaping into the sky, her golden flanks glittering brighter than ever in the sky. The bronzes had taken chase. 

"Sherlock?" John rapped at the last door. He tried the handle. It was locked. 

"John?" came Sherlock's familiar voice. 

John heard a click and the door opened.

"Are you all right?" John pushed into the room, looking about. No bronze riders had barged in. Good. 

He turned to see Sherlock closing the door quietly. Holy hell. 

The taller man was clad in only a black pair of pyjama pants, hanging loose on his hips. Sherlock's face was flushed, his hair hanging limply across his brow and neck. 

His eyes were pale grey, but his brow was in a mou of concentration. 

"I'm fine," Sherlock bit out. "Why are you here?" 

"Mirth asked us to come," 

Sherlock frowned deeper, stumbling. 

The bronzes were trying their best to catch Mirth, high in the clouds. Benth could only keen, sending his luck. 

"Mirth? But she's fine. We're fine. No one will fly us, John." 

The detective fumbled his way back to a wide, white-linen covered bed. He clambered back onto the bed, arms wobbling.

John came to his side. He neglected to point out that it was Mirth flying, not him, but John wondered if it really was so dry a statement to make. Clearly this was affecting Sherlock more than he'd anticipated. 

"This happens every time?" John asked, standing at the side of the bed, gaze drifting over Sherlock's form. 

"Every time," Sherlock breathed, eyes scrunching in concentration. He was flushing even more. His neck was stretched, exposing long, clean skin with slight mottling starting to blossom across his chest and shoulders. 

John licked his lips unconsciously. His heart thudded heavily and he tried to calm himself. Okay, so apparently Sherlock was mildly more attractive in this state than anticipated. 

"You don't want … a bronze rider then?" John queried.

Sherlock's eyes opened, "Of course not! Have you seen those buffoons? Sickening. Tell Mycroft they can bugger off."

Then Sherlock's eyes closed suddenly, his whole body going rigid, fists clenched. Wow, it must be some flight.

Sherlock's stomach was clenching, showing how his muscles contracted and bunched. Sherlock gasped, a hand grasping his own knee, flexing. 

Shit. John felt warm all over. He hadn't really thought far enough ahead. Sherlock was in full heat right alongside his dragon. It made so much more sense. John wondered what it felt like, being swallowed up in such a beastlike need. Perhaps this is what made dragon sexuality so legendary? He could only imagine what it'd be like sharing this with someone. 

 _Mirth flies fast!_ Benth interrupted. _Sherlock is good with her._  

John's breath was stuttered as he watched Sherlock concentrate, guiding his dragon. By all rights it would be better if Mirth did mate. After all, a strong bronze mating a spectacular gold would yield a great clutch of eggs.

John felt sorry for Sherlock: denied that pleasure. Mirth too. Well, Sherlock was denying himself the pleasure. John was pretty certain any and all knowing dragonriders would have wanted the gold mated by now. 

He leaned in and pressed his hand to Sherlock's forehead. The man was so hot it almost burned.

Sherlock gasped, his eyes opening. They were bright, now a sharp blue contrasted against his dark lashes and pale skin.

John gulped. Shit shit shit.

Sherlock grabbed his hand and held it tight, almost painfully so. 

"Benth isn't flying, right?" Sherlock gasped out. 

"N-no," John stuttered, mouth agog. He licked his lips again. "You're not -" John wanted to say _'to worry about me getting in your pants',_ but he wasn't too sure of himself. This was quite a bit more than he'd bargained for. 

"Dragons mature at two years," Sherlock muttered. "So he'll be there soon," Sherlock breathed, bringing John's hand up to his mouth. John almost choked when Sherlock bit into two of his fingers. Such an animalistic response to stimuli.

"Sh-Sherlock," John breathed, now clambering onto the bed beside him. He kneeled next to Sherlock's lanky form. "It's okay. You and Mirth will be fine." 

"Almost," Sherlock breathed, letting his fingers go. 

 _She's done it,_ Benth crowed in John's head. _The last bronze has fallen away. Couldn't keep up._  

John grinned. _Good girl,_ he told Mirth, hoping she could hear him. 

 _John Watson,_ was all she replied. Sherlock gasped and his whole body tensed, pulling John onto his lap and grasping him tight as hent bent in closer. Bloody hell, John felt like he was in an alternate reality. 

Sherlock's fingers dug into his back as the gold rider gasped into his chest, his legs quivering. John felt heavy, settled on Sherlock's hips as he was.

John thought his heart was going to jump out of his chest. He was hyper aware of his own erection, but hoped Sherlock was too gone to notice. 

Eventually, Sherlock's fingers loosened and he released John from the deathgrip. John knew he'd have very distinct bruises on his back come tomorrow. 

"You all right?" John murmured, leaning down to check Sherlock's face. His eyes were pale and his eyelids drooped. The man was very close to passing out. He looked amazing. Not quite sated, but out of trouble this time. 

"I'll take that as a yes."

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to point out how ironic it is that John pushes into Sherlock's room to ensure no bronze riders pushed their way in. :P


	5. Family ties

John wasn't sure what to do with himself. Sherlock seemed to have passed into a deep sleep, his mussed hair spilling over the pristine white pillow. John had clambered off the bed shakily and rearranged the covers so the detective would at least be kept warm. Sherlock really was gorgeous when his mouth wasn't flapping. John knew, God how he'd held back on it, but he knew Sherlock was attractive. Not at first, obviously. When your first instinct is to deck someone, it isn't a sure thing that said person would eventually ignite something in you that made you rearrange your feelings and reorder the categorization of your sexuality. John had wondered if the dragon side of this business was what changed his feelings. But no, that wasn't it. Sherlock was just … Sherlock. Enigmatic and infuriating, yet eye-opening and intelligent. John had learnt more in his few months around the detective than he'd learnt in his years in the army. People were funny things. Though John had never really pondered on the idea of Sherlock as a sexual being, his body did respond kindly to the nearness of the taller man. He enjoyed Sherlock's company. Here was one man, person, who didn't give a rat's ass about John's problems, insecurities or need to adhere to civilities. Sherlock didn't care if you were a dragonrider or a part of his homeless network. He cared only for the work. What made people do the things they did? Why did lovers kill each other? Why did children abandon their families? Why was money such a defining and driving force behind relationships? Why was everyone else just so incompetent? John was learning too.

He paced about the room, taking in its simple elegance. Was this Sherlock's bedroom? Had he spent his formative years in here? The room was as white as the rest of the house. A soft grey wooden desk stood beneath the tall window, bare and lacking any personality. The wall opposite the bed was lined with carved white cupboard doors. John peeked inside one out of morbid curiosity. A range of clothes hung there, preserved and yet not forgotten. The items were far-ranging. From very small, to what appeared to be adult sized outfits hung quietly in the darkness of the cupboard. John pulled at one hanger: a pair of grey shorts, white shirt, blue blazer and tie fit for a boy the size of a nine-year old. Sherlock's school uniform. John wondered at the image of a small, scrawny Sherlock with scuffed knees and a riot of curls erupting around a petulant face.

It was strange to imagine someone as loose of a cannon as Sherlock living in such decadent minimalism. This weyr was something.

John thought about 221B with its mismatched furniture, peeling wallpaper and messy piles of books, papers and experiments. This place didn't feel like Sherlock.

He ran a hand through his hair and turned to look at the sleeping form of his flatmate. Typical. The only time the man was dead asleep was after an intense mating flight brought on by his dragon's hormonal state.

Well, Sherlock was probably going to be out for a while. "Better take in the sights," John muttered and headed for the door. He wasn't sure if it was okay for him to be caught watching his flatmate sleep. Well, he knew it wasn't okay. He should probably stay away from Sherlock for a while, let the man recover and maybe put aside some time to evaluate what the hell he'd just witnessed and felt.

 

\---

 

John was loathe to bump into the man called Mycroft. He dodged the woman from before, though she did look up as he passed through the front door. Her smirk didn't ease John in the slightest.

 

It was a surprisingly warm day. So used was he to the cloudy sky and dampness of London, that this seemed almost otherworldly to John. Wait, were they even in England? He made a note of asking later.

He passed some men leaning against the courtyard wall. One was smoking, the other talking quietly. John nodded as he passed. They just eyed him warily. He also noted the number of dragons that were sat upon the battlements above: Two greens, a blue, four bronzes and three browns. The dragons seemed content though, unlike the riders below.

Right. Charming lot. Shaking his head, John just headed out of the courtyard. He recalled Benth's images from before, showing the open grounds where the dragons had gone for feeding.

_I see you,_ came Benth's voice. John looked about. Ah, there they were. Down the grassy knoll to the right of the driveway lay the two familiar dragons. John smiled.

"Resting, are we?" he called as he approached. Benth warbled a greeting and got to his feet. He circled around John as the brown rider looked over Mirth. She was resting deeply, eyes closed, chest rising. Her gold colour was sharp, but not as bright as it had appeared in Benth's images. "Knackered, I bet," John murmured fondly. Like rider, like dragon.

"And you?" he turned to grin at his own dragon. "How was that? Exciting?"

_You mean the flight,_ Benth said. _It was interesting. There were a lot of bronzes.  
_ John snorted, "Yeah, four of them."

_More than that,_ Benth added. _Some went between after the flight. It bothers the weyr when a queen doesn't mate. It … confuses them._

John frowned. He understood that the riders were frustrated over the ordeal. Even if none wanted to have anything to do with the queen's rider, it was unheard of for the queen herself to not mate. For the dragons it was plain biology, an imperative. _I'll bet it's frustrating,_ John thought wryly.

"Is it so strange that she doesn't mate?" John asked softly, hand rubbing over Benth's giant muzzle.

_It does not anger them,_ Benth answered. _She is precious to them, though. She is a gold._ He said the last bit with such finality John couldn't have questioned him. Gold dragons really were treasured amongst beast and rider.

"Oh Sherlock," John sighed, "You bloody troublemaker."

\---

 

It was after feeding Benth that John thought it time to head back indoors and find out how he was to get home. Sure, it was lovely to roam the countryside a bit, but London and his job called. He left Benth to lounge with Mirth, the brown not eager to leave her alone just yet.

He walked back into the grand house (if he could call it a house) and sniffed. Food. His stomach growled. How long had he been outside? Lunch was long gone, for sure. He followed his nose into what was an enormous family kitchen.

The three riders from before were seated at a large oblong table, piles of meat, vegetables and salads provided for a meal.

Beer too. John licked his lips.

"Dr. Watson," came that now familiar voice. John sighed and turned. Mycroft had entered behind him. "Do eat, please. You are a guest." The sickly smile did nothing for John.

"Right, I suppose I could nibble." He said, pulling out a chair. The three bronze riders stopped and stared, one with a mouthful of beef. "Lads," John nodded. "Name's John Watson."

The one at the far end raised a sardonic brow. "You the one on the strange beast? Nereth mentioned a new dragon. Not your weyr, mate."

His friend snorted, "Like it matters. Brown-rider."

John pulled the plate of meat closer and slid a few tender slices onto a plate provided. He scooped out a pile of fresh salad too. God, he was starving!

"Yeah, well," he answered casually. "Just visiting."

"Visiting?" The one with the full mouth had swallowed. "During a mating flight? You are joking."

John eyed the man.

Mycroft slid into the chair on the far other end of the table, his hands steepling beneath his nose.

"Why would I be joking?" John muttered. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"So you know the freak, then?"

John blinked. "Sorry, what?"

He heard Mycroft clear his throat audibly and the man who'd spoken sputtered a bit.

"I believe they are referring to Sherlock," Mycroft said coolly. "Though they forget who he rides, Sherlock himself does not immure himself with his weyrmates."

John looked back at the bronze riders. They _looked_ like bronze riders too, if he was honest. It wasn't everyday he could discern a rider's dragon, but it seemed Sherlock was rubbing off on him. They all three had the air of irrefutable arrogance about them. The fact they wore their bronze riding gear was more for show than anything else. Riding gear wasn't necessary for short flights, not even really recommended for everyday wear and definitely not for mating flights. Too many belts and snaps.

And the way they spoke about Sherlock … _well_.

"And why are you here?" John said, voice nothing but calm.

The other three all looked at him then as if surprised.

"Why do you think?" the tallest one growled. "For tea."

John smiled, "You're here for Sherlock's mating flight."

"His gold's flight, you mean," the black-haired one across said.

"Mirth," John corrected. "It'd do you well to remember a gold's name. You're here because she flew. You're here because you were called in, yes? On orders? Or just because you were in the neighbourhood?"

The three stared at him. John smiled wider, his face nothing less than friendly. "You came here to get laid and when Sherlock didn't pony up, you got annoyed. Deal with it, lads. You say you want nothing to do with him, and it's all about Mirth, but let's be honest. It's not you denying Sherlock. He doesn't want you, or even your dragons. That says a lot, doesn't it?"

John bit into a forkful and grinned.

The other three blanched and their faces took on similar looks of annoyance, rage and embarrassment. Perfect.

 

\---

 

After the meal, John was left at the table with Mycroft. It was awkward. The man hardly said a word and John was tired of trying to be polite.

"Right, well, I have to be getting home. Can you tell Sherlock when he wakes-"

"You are not obligated to leave, Doctor," Mycroft cut him off. "We've had a room prepared already. You can leave with Sherlock in the morning.

John blinked. "Well, no, I'm not-"

"Clothing has been provided and really, Sherlock should be up later tonight. He won't be flying, but he will at least … require your company. Do you want me to tell my staff that their work will go unnoticed?"

John wanted to argue. He wanted to say he had work to get to, but that would have been a lie. "That's very, uh, kind," he grit his teeth. "But-"

"Also, our queen will be home. She wants to meet you."

John stopped. Queen? The queen? Not Mirth?

"Uh …" he said dully, "there's more than one?"

Mycroft gave him a _look_. "Of course not. Our Weyrwoman has been off these last few weeks." He sighed. "Her return has been expedited."

John swallowed, "Because of Mirth?" John had heard that not too many queens could take up residence in the same weyr. It could cause friction at times. They didn't like to share their bronzes.

Mycroft smiled. "Mmm, if only. No, she returns because of you. Dying to meet you, she said."

Oh shitballs. John was going to meet the Weyrwoman. The female leader of Sherlock's weyr. Jeeeeez. He was not prepared for that.

 

He sat, back straight, hands flat on the table. He understood that each weyr had a weyrleader and weyrwoman. Both were responsible for keeping the weyr in check. John wondered yet again what he was to do with this information.

"Wait," he blurted suddenly. "Your weyrwoman is coming back. So who's the weyrleader then?"

Mycroft smiled wide.

Oh Lord. John sighed and rolled his eyes. Of course it was this man. How could he have thought otherwise.

"Yes, he thinks very highly of himself since his rise to the throne."

John's head snapped about, eyes widening.

"Sherlock!" he cried. "you're awake."

The detective rolled his eyes, "Wonderful observation, John."

"Early, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, standing to press his suit flat with his hands.

Sherlock scowled. "Shut it, Mycroft. I'm leaving once Mirth wakes up. We've been here long enough as it is."

"Not tonight," Mycroft said coolly. "Anath returns tonight."

John looked between the two. Sherlock clearly did not like this man, his weyrleader.

Sherlock snorted, "Of course she is. And tell me, Mycroft, how is Mother?"

Mother? Were these two …? Oh, that was awful. Brothers, of course. How could he have missed _that_? John blinked. "Oh! Is your mum weyrwoman?"

Both men made a face at him like they'd bitten into a lemon each. "God no," Sherlock said. "Not for years."

Mycroft sighed and looked at John squarely, "Our mother chooses to reside in the south of France. She gave up leadership years before Sherlock even Impressed Mirth."

Sherlock snorted. "Gave up? Oh please. No one wants to have to manage this godforsaken weyr. Except you of course, brother dear. Got to have a certain tenacity and air of viciousness to succeed eh?"

Mycroft and Sherlock squared off, eyes sparking.

"Uh," John cleared his throat. "You, uh, gonna get dressed Sherlock? I mean, if your weyrwoman-"

"My weyrwoman?" Sherlock spat out. "That harpy? Psh!"

"Sherlock," Mycroft said coldly. "John's right. Go get dressed."

"Ummm… no, old man," Sherlock said.

John had to smile at that. Looking at Sherlock you'd be right in thinking he'd just rolled out of bed, his hair a mess, his pyjama pants rumpled, his feet bare. At least he was a complete tool all the time. Consistency works best.

Sherlock's blue eyes met John's and John tried to not look away. Right. Mating flight. Awkward moments.

He hoped Sherlock wouldn't think him weird for staying with him, but then again, John wouldn't have been surprised if the detective shunned him anyway.

"You've eaten," Sherlock said. "Potatoes, really Mycroft?" his eyes moved to his brother. "Part of your diet?"

"Enough," Mycroft said sharply. "If you only have the decency to show up when your dragon's to be flown, then you can make some sort of effort to be a member of this weyr. Have some decorum, brother."

"Decorum?" Sherlock smirked and John felt his stomach flutter. "Going by the state of this weyr, I'd say decorum was thrown out the window years ago. If Anath is only returning for me, then doesn't that say it all?"

"If only, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his face changing. Now he seemed smug. "I didn't call her. She comes of her own free will."

Sherlock was quiet, eyes peering sceptically at his brother. "I don't believe you. That woman does what she wants."

"Naturally," Mycroft added. "And she returns. Tonight."

\---

 

John got over his embarrassment once Mycroft had left and Sherlock dragged him back to his room. While Sherlock showered and threw on clothing, John questioned him on the weyrwoman.

He found out it was a bit of a faux pas to assume their mother was weyrwoman. Seems having a mother and son set of leaders was uncomfortable for dragonriders and normal folk too. It was actually not typical for any weyrleader to remain in power for too long. As it was, the weyrleader typically ruled the roost while the weyrwoman just got on with her life. Though, judging by Mycroft and Sherlock's complaints, the current weyrwoman was something to be reckoned with.

John wondered what the other gold rider was like. Was she mated to Mycroft? Did they have a relationship? Or did that tradition not live on here? Lord knows Sherlock flouted tradition left and right.

"He just craves power," Sherlock said as he buttoned up a fresh, white shirt. John tried not to think of the pale skin now hidden from the world. "Don't trust a word he says, John. He may be weyrleader here, but he's also Britain's leader eslewhere."

"He's an official?" John queried from his seat on the desk chair. "Like, he works in parliament? I can see that. Personality of a corpse."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, tucking in his shirt and pulling out a black belt from the cupboard farthest away. "No, he _is_ the British Government." He wandered back to John, slinging his belt through the beltloops of his trousers. His lean-cut, perfectly tailored traousers.

"Oh." John blinked. "Right."

Sherlock appeared suddenly in front of him. John looked up, surprised. Sherlock's eyes ran over his face, flicking between John's dark blue eyes. John's jaw went slack.

"You're uncomfortable," Sherlock said, leaning in slightly, looking John over. "Why? No, don't tell me. The mating flight. Your first time seeing one?"

John swallowed, his hands now rubbing at his thighs awkwardly. "Well, not exactly supposed to be seeing your flight, right? Should've probably stayed outside, watched the dragons or something. I don't know. Sorry, by the way."

Sherlock's eyes peered into his own again. "If it made you uncomfortable, then why be here at all? That makes no sense."

God, his eyelashes were long.

John licked his lips. "Well, I don't honestly know what the protocol is, Sherlock. If you'd given me more notice, I might not have even been in here, this room, like an idiot."

Sherlock stood straight, "You are an idiot."

John made a face, "Thanks."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed and pulled on a dark blue blazer. "Don't misunderstand me. If you weren't welcome, I would have thrown you out, you have my word."

John felt better hearing that. He didn't doubt Sherlock's ability of getting rid of unwanted guests, but in his prior state... well. "But those other riders-"

"I don't care, John. It's done. Your embarrassment is unnecessary. If Mirth hadn't called you, you wouldn't even have been here. So there's that. Let's move on, shall we?"

John wondered how the other man could be so off-the-cuff about these matters. He'd basically seen Sherlock get off in a bizarre sexual ritual. He hadn't signed up for that.

Sherlock paused, mouth making an 'o'. His gaze flicked back to John and he smiled wickedly. "Unless…" John  _hated_ that look. It was the one he got when he realized how sad and pathetic his suspects' reasoning had been during a case.

He pulled sharply at his cuffs, eyes not leaving John. "You're uncomfortable because you wanted to share my flight? How charming, John."

John flushed. "No! Wait a minute. That's not- I didn't." God, God, God! He was not a pervert, damnit! He was a friend! Or something...

Sherlock laughed, his face split in glee.

"Not to worry, John. I know you didn't arrive expecting that, probably didn't expect anything at all. Rather good of you, really. People get swept up in mating flights. It happens."

"Not to me," John huffed.

Sherlock's smile was small, but keen. "No, you're probably right."

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon names always end in 'th' by the way. I believe Anne McCaffrey said it was due to them having forked tongues. I don't know if I see my dragons with forked tongues, but the 'th' hath th-tayed anyway. Thurprithe!


	6. The Weyrwoman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to the first few readers, the story had weird duplicating paragraph issues. Ruined the end of the chapter, really. :\ Should be all fixed now.

The house had cleared out, apparently. One unfamiliar rider came to talk to Mycroft. He apologized about having to leave, but to give his greetings to the weyrwoman. He looked very nervous and anxious about the idea of staying any longer.

 

 

John could see more than plain ire in Mycroft's face.

"They flee," Sherlock muttered, walking alongside John as they exited the grand house. Mirth was about and the deep shadows of the evening were lengthening. The detective was typing on his mobile. He looked tall and elegant in the dark blue suit and white shirt. Part of John was keenly jealous of the other man's innate grace and form. At just over six feet, Sherlock was already blessed with long limbs and an ease rarely found in other men his age.

John felt particularly staunch and uptight beside him.

The rider that had left before them was clambering into his blue's riding harness. The dragon's tail was whipping around and it arced a bellowing good-bye to the watch-dragon. John paused in the courtyard for a moment, finally taking a moment to look about the battlements above.

Only one dragon sat atop the cold stone, its giant form dark in the early night, though its gaze was keen and naturally following John and Sherlock. Big watch-dragon.

John averted his gaze and followed Sherlock into the much darker grounds.

"So," John breathed as he jogged to catch up. "This weyrwoman. Not a friend of yours?"

Sherlock snorted and slipped his phone into his breast pocket. "Friend? No. Ally, sometimes. Royal pain? Always."

"I see," John lied. "Do I need to show any sort of ... um, regard for her?"

Sherlock's head turned, "You mean, do you have to kneel and bow before her presence? Gaze upon her beauty and refrain from any profanity? No, John."

"It's a solid question," John said.

"Mm, no. Just ..." Sherlock paused before continuing, "Remain as you are. Never bend, John. It's hardly ever worth it."

The two men walked further into the darkness. "Now where has she got to?" John muttered. 

"Off twittering about with Benth, I assume," Sherlock muttered, looking about as well. "She has a new predeliction for cavorting."

John snorted. 

_Incoming_.

John looked up. Ah, there they were. It was difficult to see in the deep sky, but the two dragons were slowly drifting down from above. "Come on," Sherlock said sharply. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we get home."

Benth landed heavily in front of John, head swaying in joy. Obviously he'd enjoyed some free time.

Mirth landed more gracefully, her back legs alighting first, her great wings waving as she lowered herself to her forelegs.

"Now why aren't you that graceful, you great lump?" John said with a wry smile, fingers scratching at Benth's eye ridge.

_Mirth practises a lot. I don't._

John just figured Mirth once again was mirroring her rider. Sherlock was stroking her neck and softly speaking. They hadn't seen each other since the mating flight, of course. Perhaps they were congratulating each other? 

"You'll be on the battlements again," John said to Benth. "Sherlock and I have business to attend to, but then it's back off home, all right?"

Yes.

A sudden screeching sound tore through the night and both dragons looked up, their voices warbling. In the dimness, John could just make out Sherlock's scowl.

"She has to make a performance of everything!" John turned and saw a gold flash of dragon looping around the house, lit by the courtyard lights. Ah. She had arrived.

\---

The trek back to the house was slow due to the lumbering dragons. John didn't mind. He had to organize his thoughts. He would be polite and not ask too many questions. Yes. Good plan. 

As they approached the well-lit courtyard, John had to stop and stare. Another beautiful gold dragon was standing calmly in the safety of the courtyard. She was met by Mycroft who patted her muzzle.

A woman was also standing beside her.

John's breath snagged a bit. This was no simple woman. She exuded confidence and beautiful strength. She wore a white fur-collared coat, her hair up, her facial features sharp and cutting in the light.

She was talking to Mycroft. Then her head turned and spotted them. Her smile was nothing if not cunning, yet beguiling.

So this was their weyrwoman.

"My, my," she said warmly, walking up to Sherlock. "So you actually stayed. I had hoped so."

She smiled like a cheshire cat up at Sherlock and John bristled.

"Irene," Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"Sherlock," her red lips twisted in amusement and her hand stroked up the detective's suit lapel. "I always expect something else when I think of seeing you. And yet, you never surprise, do you?"

"Your riddles bore me," Sherlock said in a bored tone. "We'll be gone within the hour. Don't get your hopes up just yet."

"We?"

John gulped as her gaze drifted around Sherlock, finally alighting on him. She scanned him and John felt an uncanny emotion flutter over him. She was reading him, in her own way.

"Hallo," she purred, pushing at Sherlock's shoulder to approach John. "What brings you here, darling?" She kept her eyes pinned on his as she shifted out of her coat, letting it drop to her one hand. John cleared his throat, determined to not look away. He was not going to stare at the very daring dress she wore. It was a deep emerald green and barely clung to her thin shoulders. The scandalous dip down the middle was not distracting, oh no, not at all.

"Hallo," John answered, a catch in his voice.

She smiled, eyes twinkling, as though she could just feel the flush radiating off John. Then her eyes flicked away, past John. Her eyes widened.

"Oh," she whispered. And in a smooth movement, she was past John, her feet leading her towards Benth, who'd remained near the entrance of the courtyard. "Goodness me, aren't you unique?"

Benth gave an unfamiliar whine and curled his head away from her outstretched hand. He moved back and then around, skirting Mirth and coming around so he stood on the other side of Sherlock. John wondered for a moment if this was an insult to the weyrwoman. Hell only knew.

The woman paused and turned, her mouth open slightly. Then she covered her surprise quickly, a keen, tight smile falling into place.

"Perhaps your dragon needs lessons in greeting a weyrwoman? What is your name again?"

John tilted his head stiffly and clenched his fists at his side. 

"Seems Benth knows an asp when he sees one," Sherlock cut in, his smile small.

Irene peered at John still. He cleared his throat. "John Watson. My name is John Watson."

"Oh," she said, eyes flicking to Sherlock, "A plain name. Seems fitting."

"Now, Irene," Mycroft stepped forward. "Enough of this silliness. Come inside. I'll put on some tea."

"I'm in no mood for tea, Mycroft." Her voice was like a knife, slicing through his politeness. Clearly this woman had as much tolerance for Mycroft as Sherlock had for her. "Stop trying to distract me. I came to see Sherlock. It's just been too long." The purr in her voice was reserved only for the detective of course. She approached Sherlock. John found it odd that Irene hadn't greeted Mirth. If anything, she'd pointedly ignored the other gold dragon. This bothered him a lot. Mirth was also part of this weyr, damnit, even if Benth wasn't.

Irene was back in front of Sherlock. "You're worth coming home to."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You haven't considered this place home since you ran off with that Danish Royal. What was his name?"

Irene pouted, "Baron, not Royal. And really, what does it matter? I still have my flights here? Isn't that all we gold riders are for? At least I fulfill my ... duties."

John figured this was a stab at Sherlock's disinterest in weyr life. Seemed pretty hypocritical.

"For Queen and country, I suppose," Sherlock said.

"Of course," Irene smiled back. It was like they were speaking a separate language.

"Are you two quite done?" He blurted out. "Or are we all just going to stand about in the dark until sunrise?"

"Oh, snappy, aren't we?" Irene answered, not even looking his way. She was eyeing Benth again over Sherlock's shoulder. "Tell me, Mycroft," she began, "When did we start taking in strays? Surely our weyr isn't so underfed ...?"

Sherlock raised a hand and pushed firmly at her shoulder until she took a step back. "It would do you in great stead to not belittle other riders, weyrwoman. You say you're here to see me."

"Oh, so the cat wants attention?" Irene cooed. John noticed out of the corner of his eye that Mirth had moved closer, slowly coming up behind Sherlock to stand beside Benth. "You always pretend to not want me, Sherlock, gold or no. The minute I look away, you fret, don't you?"

Sherlock stared back. "You're not here to see me. This ridiculous farce you put on every time is wearing thin. You're here to meet John. Everything about you screams it. Try harder, won't you? I only stayed a bit longer so you could get your chance. Thank me later."

"Wait, what?" John stuttered. 

Sherlock looked at him, "I say you, John, and Benth of course. Word travels fast in your circle, doesn't it, Irene?" His gaze slid back to the weyrwoman. "As if you would just show up now."

Irene's mask slipped a little, her eyes dark. 

"I don't-" John said.

"Understand?" Sherlock smirked at the woman before turning to look at the great head of Benth just behind him. "An Arabian blue-crested? Here, in your weyr? Couldn't stand to let that go, could you?"

"Why is that something?" John asked, wishing he could read everything the way Sherlock could.

Mycroft cleared his throat. Sherlock ignored him. "Because our weyrwoman, John, has already worked her way across almost every member of this weyr and any other weyr in the United Kingdom. She is not born of this weyr, you know. She's, what would you call it? A business partner of sorts."

Say what now? 

"Oh hush, Sherlock," Irene cooed, slipping back into her former personality. "You'll give away all my secrets."

Sherlock snorted, "For a woman who basically paid her golden way into this weyr, you'd think she'd have the decency to not ruin every dragonrider she met. Not that sex is the problem. You promised eggs.  It's the principle of the idea. Possession. Owning every rider, having sexual authority of others who grew up better than you. Your actions tell a story. Every disguise does."

"And when did you develop principles, Sherlock Holmes?" Irene breathed. "I do my business my way. This weyr benefits from my occupancy. Why do you think that is?"

"Enough," Mycroft cut in, stepping between them. "My dear, now is not the time."

Sherlock was silent.

Mirth rumbled, her head leaning into her rider's side. 

"Inside. Now," and with that, Mycroft took Irene's elbow in hand and guided her into the house. Amazing. They hadn't even set a foot indoors, and this weyrwoman had blown John's mind. There was some very serious tension and history here. He was the outsider looking in.

\---

True to Sherlock's word, they didn't stay much longer, for which John was grateful. He couldn't fathom sleeping in the cold, old house. Irene picked and poked at the two of them. She questioned John relentlessly about life at Baker Street. At first he'd been polite and accommodating but once she starting mucking about in his friendship with Sherlock, he cut her off with curt answers. Sherlock was even worse. He'd answer her but in such a circuitous fashion that John would forget what the question was. He felt that Irene and Sherlock were just showing off, seeing how much they could divulge about the other's escapades of the last year.

Mycroft said nothing. He seemed bored by the entire encounter. This was his lot.

When Sherlock had had enough, the two visitors made to leave. Ignoring Mycroft's request for them to stay, Sherlock brusquely gathered up the clothing he'd discarded on arrival. John supposed he was lucky that Mycroft had clothing waiting for such events.

Event. Right. 

It was only when he had time to think, that John remembered the mating flight. Irene was clearly aware of it. Why it interested her was beyond John. It was dangerous to have more than one gold nearby during any sort of mating flight.

John supposed Irene could have come without Anath, her gold. She could have lain with Sherlock, taken part in his part of the flight...it made sense that she'd like to.

John shook his head. As natural as it seemed to have these two exotic people come together, it made John's stomach turn. Irene was not good for Sherlock, this he knew. Not in any tangible way, more just as a feeling in his gut. The Captain in him knew. It made no sense, as John barely knew the woman, but he felt Irene could tear Sherlock apart, or had already done at some point. It bothered John too much.

They passed a large painting in the foyer, one John hadn't taken note of upon entry. It seemed like any other Romantically medieval painting, very old, very textured.

Woven into the paint, almost subtly hidden in the discolouration of years, was a familiar phrase. 

 

_Go far, fly fast, and know that you are always welcome home_.

 

"When can I expect you back?" Mycroft said to their retreating backs.

 

"How about never?" John whispered. Sherlock smirked as they loped down the front steps into the courtyard.

"Sherlock," Mycroft's tone was stern, demanding.

"Oh let the lovebirds go," Irene muttered coming to stand beside the weyrleader. 

John looked up and held his tongue. The dragons on the battlements were lined up neatly, their great heads leaning down as the two men exited.

John grinned. "Come on, boy. Let's get home."

"Before you leave," Mycroft said from very close by. John turned, watching the weyrleader slowly step down towards him. "Doctor."

Benth leapt off the battlements and landed jerkily on the gravel behind John, making the ground tremble. Mycroft frowned at the brown, as though he were an overactive child running through the rosebushes. John's mouth twisted, amused.

"I am extending a welcome hand. You are free to visit this weyr, Sherlock's weyr, if you see fit."

John blinked. "Um, thanks. I think."

John sensed, more than saw another dragon alight close-by. He turned slowly, coming face-to-face with the bronze watch-dragon. Its gaze was steady, its giant head lowering toward him. He shrank a bit internally. This dragon was much older than the others.

While Sherlock puttered about with Mirth, John was pinned by the gaze of this enormous beast.

"I look forward to seeing you again, Doctor." came Mycroft's voice, soft but cold. "You're the closest person to my brother. Don't forget that. I certainly won't."

John licked his lips. Right.

The great bronze dragon lifted his head and turned to look over its shoulder. It turned back to John. He got the message. 

_Mirth is dear to this weyr,_ came a deep, unfamiliar voice in his head.  _You will keep her safe._

John tilted his chin downwards ever so slightly. The dragon rumbled then moved back and away. 

_Home, John,_ Benth said calmly, coming to his rider and lowering his neck.

\--- 


	7. Into the fire

 

John slept heavily the rest of that night. He slept well for the rest of the week too. Locum work kept him busy from thereon and Benth filled in the gaps with feedings. 

Sherlock carried on as he always had. Some new cases cropped up. If John was free, he joined the detective on the escapades. The case of the unidentified murder victim went unsolved. Lestrade didn't close the case at the insistence of Sherlock. John wondered what made this case so important to Sherlock. It was more than ego, surely. Sherlock couldn't solve everything. John didn't mention the weyr. Honestly, the thought of it tired him out. 

While the detective kept himself busy with his violin, experiments and cases, John worked on Benth's training. 

He didn't want Sherlock mocking his efforts, so some mornings, John would sneak off with his brown and go train the beast on the other side of the city. He drew quite a bit of attention, once even got a talking-to by a dog walker. 

Benth needed training. He was lacking skills that John only noticed were missing when he was compared to Mirth. First they worked on his landings. Building up wing strength was integral to maintaining balance. Then they practised going between. Back and forth, back and forth. It wasn't pleasant, but it was necessary. John's military training made him think it had to be second nature. He needed concrete instincts for those moments when going between may be necessary. Benth was very willing. He practised and practised, following John's every wish. John figured they were doing well until a few weeks later, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as he entered the flat. 

"Your training is taking too long," the detective drawled, eyes rolling back to the newspaper in his hands. "Mirth learnt her landing sets in five days. Barely hatched, she was." 

John paused. How had he thought, even for one moment that Sherlock hadn't figured out what he was up to? What ludicrous fantasy had he been dwelling in? 

"I have the time," Sherlock continued, "All you have to do is ask."

John sighed and rubbed at his face. "Not now, Sherlock. I don't need your snarky attitude today. It's important, you know." He murmured before slumping into his cozy armchair. He stared at his flatmate, whose long legs were propped up on some boxes. "He's ungainly around other dragons. He comes off as foolish." 

Sherlock flicked the newpaper back. His pale eyes bored into John. "Why is the unconventional so overlooked, John?" 

John blinked, "Unconventional?" 

"Are you unhappy with Benth? His behaviour displeases you?"

John balked, "No, not at all. I just want him to ... "

"Fit in?" Sherlock supplied. "Fairly sure dragons don't care, John."

He had a point there.

"Yet you have so much pride in Mirth's performance." John countered.

Sherlock snorted. 

John sighed and rubbed at his temple. Sherlock was such a prat at times. How long had the detective known John was training Benth? God, that was annoying. He liked to let people think they were ahead of him, outwitting him. Everyone was always wrong. 

Sherlock was reading again, brows furrowed. John watched him. He enjoyed watching those bright eyes flick and peruse. John found himself watching Sherlock a lot. The visit to his weyr seemed ages ago. The weather had turned. The rain never ended, it seemed. It was getting colder.  

"Lestrade had a new body today," Sherlock rumbled, stirring John.

"Oh?"

Sherlock turned a page. "No teeth. No ID."

John's eyebrows rose and he leaned forward. "What? Is it the same? The same murderer?"

Sherlock huffed and slapped the paper closed on his lap. "Obviously."

John pursed his lips. "Not obvious, Sherlock."

"Lestrade doesn't understand. None of them do! There's a message in these bodies, John." Sherlock locked gazes with him. "I know it. I just ... There's something missing. How does a body just appear in the middle of a street? How does the killer leave no trace? No wheel marks, no recognizable DNA? Who are these victims? Why did they die?" 

The detective was talking to himself. John just settled in, preparing to be a sounding board all night.

\--- 

In the end, John caved. Sherlock was a good teacher. He and Mirth assisted in Benth's training. The brown learnt quicker from the gold, mimicking her movements. Sherlock was unsurpisingly sharp with Benth, expecting quick results. Either he expected Mirth to pass on his commands, or John to soften the wording for Benth. The brown dragon enjoyed the experience. John wondered if it was normal for a dragon to grow attached to a person other than its rider. It didn't seem typical. Mirth wasn't particularly fond of other people. She was good with John, but not overtly so. But Benth, oh he enjoyed Sherlock's time. He listened carefully and responded well.  

John shouldn't have been surprised, really. Sherlock was brilliant in every way, damnit. 

They came into contact with more dragonriders at the feeding grounds. John was amenable to meeting others but found himself growing wary every time Benth's lineage came into question. John had more than enough chances to witness the bahaviour of other brown dragons from the area. It certainly confirmed what Sherlock had said. Benth was large for a brown. He even matched a couple bronzes in size. John found it amusing that the dragons saw nothing odd in Benth, were unconcerned with him, whereas their riders always found something niggling to say. Perhaps it was apparent that Benth and John weren't weyrbred, but why did they even care? 

"Classism, John," Sherlock said once after a particularly snotter brown rider huffed at John's limiting answers to her prying questions.

"You referring to their level of upbringing? Bit of a generalization, wouldn't you say?" John responded, stroking his hand over Mirth's bulging belly as she lay on the grass after her feeding. Benth was introducing himself to a young rider down by the paddock.

Sherlock scowled, "I am not generalizing. Weyrbred folk are different in that they come from a certain background. They were taught to think a certain way, see themselves a certain way. When someone from outside their circle barges in uninvited, it ruffles their upperclass feathers."

"I didn't barge in, Sherlock. It's not like I chose this."

John huffed and scowled. He hadn't meant to sound unhappy with his lot, but he couldn't disguise the futility of being a poor dragonrider.

"Not all who are weyrbred become riders." Sherlock murmured, watching John scratch an itch for Mirth. "Hatchings are a palaver, to be honest. Imagine it. Rounding up all eligible teens and having them wait, expectant for a hatchling to burst out and become their own. When a dragon chooses someone else over you, it can be the creation of a cynic."

John listened intently. Sherlock rarely spoke of the traditions of weyr life. He didn't believe in them much. _Archaic_ always his word of choice.

"Still," John cleared his throat. "They can't _all_ be arrogant tossers. So I'm not some posh git with a mansion. Move on, you know?"

Mirth rumbled, her eyes swirling under John's ministrations. Sherlock watched this with rapt attention.  

_He likes that you're not like the others_ , Mirth said to John alone. _Sherlock likes dragons first, riders last. He like you, John_. 

John tried to not let her words show on his face. He knew the message was for him, but he feared Sherlock would figure out that Mirth communicated directly with him and gave away details such as this. Also, her words made him blush, so, really, it was best all round if he kept his gaze averted. John was certain now that the fact he could hear other dragons apart from his own was a unique asset. Sherlock hadn't seemed to figure it out yet, which was John's saving grace. Not the perfect detective, was he? This was John's secret. The dragons enjoyed having him around. It saved a lot of time in the passing of messages. Mirth could just say something to him and not rely on Benth to pass it on.

"Don't fret, John." Sherlock murmured. "Your face will freeze that way."

Sherlock liked him. Right. Learning things everyday, wasn't he? 

He _had_ learnt a lot, for sure. He learnt that other dragons were perfectly likable. Not a temperamental lot. And thanks to Sherlock and Mirth, he was able to streamline Benth's training. Also, the hierarchy of dragons became apparent at feeding time. If another gold was on the grounds, she and Mirth could have the pick of the animals. Male dragons were always reverent to golds, whether from their weyr or not. Sherlock would also amuse John by picking apart unfamiliar riders. He'd determine what part of the country they'd come from, which weyr was theirs. He could also amazingly pinpoint what the riders' careers were, whether they were married, had kids or not.  

John always smirked when he saw the aging rider with the bum leg. Sherlock declared he'd likely fallen off his own dragon as a weyrling. The detective knew a lot about dragon and rider injuries. John guessed a few were based on experience, as much as Sherlock like to crow about Mirth's prowess in the air. Another lesson he learnt was when Sherlock's eyes followed a young man on the outskirts of the feeding ground. John had seen him a couple times before. Mid-thirties, probably a groundskeeper.

Alas, John had been misled. Sherlock always watched this man, as though he fascinated the detective. Too late, John was told that he had previously been a dragonrider. 

"Previously?"

Sherlock had looked back at John. "Imagine losing Benth. Imagine he died."

John had, at the time, paled. No, he couldn't imagine it. Just the possibility ... his heart hurt and his hands clenched. No, he could never imagine losing Benth. It would kill him, the loss. The connection was too deep. Benth was another portion of his soul.

Sherlock had watched him. "When a rider and beast are separated permanently, it causes a breaking of the mind. That man," Sherlock had nodded at the outsider, "He would normally not be allowed here without a dragon. It's because his dragon is gone that he remains. He's probably lost, half-gone. It works both ways."

John had blinked up at Sherlock. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock stared down at him, pale eyes taking in John's expression. "When a dragon dies or is killed, the rider can typically move on. He or she would be half a person, essntially, but they could do it. Human spirit etcetera. For dragons, that isn't possible. The connection is too strong, too much. Once a rider passes, the dragon knows and the grief is too much." Sherlock's gaze softened. "Dragons go between, rather than stay here, untethered, riderless. When a dragon passes into between, everyone feels the pain. I've witnessed it only once, when I was a weyrling. Nothing can make the dragon stay, John." 

That had been a cruel awakening for John. He would never want Benth to suffer that. God. This connection, it was the best thing and at the same time, the worst thing ever. When he saw the dragonless man now, John could sense his sadness and it only made John reverent. Strong people stayed on, stayed behind. 

\--- 

It was many, many weeks later, after a bitingly cold and rainy day, that the two riders decided Benth was now able to blend in with other trained dragons. All thanks to Sherlock. 

John thanked him with dinner at Angelo's. It had become their late night mainstay after cases. Good Italian food, great wine and few people to comment on their odd propensity to show up covered in acid burns or blood. 

Mirth hadn't appreciated the crummy weather, her temper seemingly short. Benth was content to halt training. The detective and doctor left the two dragons on a nearby rooftop. John hoped it wasn't too chilly for them.

Angelo's was quiet. 

Sherlock rolled a meatball off John's plate onto his own. His own linguine sat untouched. 

"Thank you," John said, mouth full. 

Sherlock looked up, his dark curls unusually ruffled, falling over his brows. He'd lost the blazer and wore a deep purple shirt that made his pale skin warm. John, however, was loathe to lose his own puffer jacket. The rain earlier was ice cold and still made him shiver. How Sherlock could swan about in just a shirt and suit trousers, John would never know. 

"For helping. With Benth. I do appreciate it." He clarified. John pushed another meatball over, feeling strangely generous. He sipped at his red wine.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's awkwardness. "Can't have my assistant falling behind, can I?"

John spluttered. "Assistant? That's what I am?"

Sherlock smiled and bit into a meatball. "You love it."

John barked out a laugh. He shook his head and gulped back some more wine. It was heady. Everything was. John was drowning in his life's one-eighty spin. How could one man, one tall, dark, ridiculous man change the course of John's life? It was overwhelming at times. It was so good, but so strange.

"That's your second glass, John," Sherlock smirked, sipping at his own wine.

"Piss off."

"I see why the ladies like you," Sherlock muttered.

"Ladies? Hah!" John sat back and looked out on the dark night. "It's not the wine, nor the slurs, Sherlock. It's all in the eyes. The Watson charm."

Sherlock leaned forward on his elbows. John almost jumped.

"Is it, now?" Sherlock murmured, his voice a dull rumble. "Eyes, you say?"

John stared into those pale blue eyes, those sharp, amused eyes. God, how could someone so beautiful be such a complete arse? And yes, Sherlock was gorgeous. It was beyond annoying and also terribly distracting. Even in the chill night Sherlock seemed to ooze calm collectedness, his skin seeming warm and smooth. Delicate, perhaps? John could see himself leaning over and biting that long neck, curling fingers into those soft curls.  

"What does it feel like?" John blurted out.

Sherlock tilted his head.

"You know, all those months ago. The flight?"

Sherlock stared at him, scanning his features. He lost his smile. 

"It's debilitating."

John licked his lips. "How? Explain. I really want to know."

Sherlock sighed and sat back, his eyes drifting to the window. "Of course you do. Everyone does. Tedious."

"But is it, really? Is ... Is sex really that alarming?"

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock softly. "The mating flight is distracting. A biological imperative, as they say. I dislike the feeling. I have to have control, John." He turned to stare at him. "You know what I mean." It was a statement.

John breathed slowly. "Well, yes, I understand. But ... It would feel good, wouldn't it? Sharing it with someone?"

Sherlock eyed him. "You speak of sex like it's some gift humans give to one another. How ... medieval."

John frowned. "No, I don't mean it like that. Sex is great. Well, most of the time. When I say share, I suppose I mean ... I don't know, it's good to please someone else as well? You respond to the hormones, obviously. Why not follow through?"

"I respond, as you say, because my body refuses to listen. There is no off switch, John. You wait and see. I'm going to always hold onto whatever control I can. And refusing groping bronze riders? Easy."

John held back a retort about bronze riders. After the bunch he'd now met, he could tell where they got their imagined swagger. Only they bred golds. Arrogant sods. 

"Is ... Is it usually difficult if a bronze rider is around?"

Sherlock snorted in derision. "Honestly, no. It just makes it easier to get off, easier to overlook reasons to NOT do it. But I will not allow it. You don't need a bronze rider. Some gold riders choose to remain with their husbands or wives, or whoever meets their fancy. Bronzes just take liberties. Neanderthals, the lot of them. Others lie and say it's the hormones that dictate their behaviour. Dragonriders can lie too, John. The world of any man is corrupted by liars and sex. Women. Men. All the same."

John frowned. "I see. So, even if you found someone you'd be willing to sleep with, it wouldn't be worth it? It's too political?"

He looked up, eyes connecting with Sherlock's and there was something he hadn't expected. He hadn't expected to see a fire in those eyes, something new. John swallowed. Sherlock's eyes fell to his lips, and John was hyper aware of his tongue which had begun the short journey across his lips. Nerves.

"I've had my escapades in bed," Sherlock muttered. "They don't define me."

"Of course not," John breathed. His brain swirled with images of Sherlock with others. Sherlock in white sheets. Sherlock kissing a woman, other women, men. It made John's blood boil. Everything was making his blood boil. He felt overheated. 

"Sherlock," he breathed, tugging at his shirt collar. "Sherlock." Speak, Man! 

Wow, it really was hot. In this weather? Was the heating on? 

Sherlock's eyes roamed over John before his hand rubbed through his own hair. 

_John_ , came Benth's voice. It caught John's attention. He got a sudden flash of the rooftop across the street where both he and Mirth were settled. The moon was bright, the wind cool, even. Benth's tone was not calm. 

John stood suddenly. Shoot. Something was wrong. Benth was ... sick? Scared? No ... something else.

"I have to go," John said, digging into his jeans for his wallet. He threw down a couple notes, not counting them.

Sherlock stood too. 

"John, wait." 

"Hurry up, then," John said, grabbing his coat and heading out the door. 

_What's up?_ He said to Benth. _Meet on the backlot_. Sherlock seemed to be following as John took a sharp left down an alleyway. It led to a parking lot.  

The moon cast a moving shadow.  

Benth was just landing, his tail thrashing, twitching. He bugled at John, calling him closer.

"What's wrong?" John jogged up to him, panic shooting through him. His heart was thundering. He could feel Benth's heart too. They were trying to match one another.

Benth swayed his head and leaned in close, bugling again. He nudged John in the chest. The harsh lights of the parking lot flashed across Benth and John gasped. 

"What on earth?" His hands came up and pressed to Benth's brow crests above each eye, fingers shaking. The skin was hot but more importantly, the colouration was sharp and different. His crests were typically a dark brown with swipes of dark blue melding into the crest scales. It was one of the few parts of Benth's body that had any kind of scaling.

But now the crests were flushed fully, a bright wash of cerulean sweeping from his eyelids up and over the brow crests, as though a paint-dipped brush had been slashing over his scales, like warpaint. His scales almost glowed in the harsh lights. His opalescent eyes were swirling. 

"What's wrong with him?" John felt his voice rise sharply. He turned to look at Sherlock. "What is it? What do I do?"

John stopped, his thought processes freezing. He was close. Sherlock's gaze was on him, a bright shocking blue. Sherlock's face was flushed, his neck exposed. Wait, it looked the same as before ... just ... more inviting, somehow.

"Sherlock, what the hell is going on?" John's heart felt solid and heavy as it beat in his chest. His blood was thick in his veins, his mouth dry. He felt Benth's hot breath ghost over his shoulder and the dragon nudged him aside, moving to Sherlock and pressing his muzzle into the detective's chest. 

A wail crested over them and Mirth appeared, her landing less than elegant this time, claws scrabbling on the wet tarmac. She looked unreal. Her golden scales shimmered uncannily, her tail slicing the air around her. John was forcefully reminded of her size. She hissed, head dipping low, pinions wide and domineering.

Benth turned around, his bellow a sharp rumble. He approached Mirth and she hissed, tail whipping faster.

 John's eyes widened as he felt Benth's emotions, his thoughts, skyrocket. His fingers clenched as Benth's claws scraped the rough ground. Mirth shrieked and leapt atop one of the few lone cars in the parking lot. Her claws screeched across the metal, her immense bulk buckling the vehicle below, neck wending and waving, mouth wide, teeth agleam. Oh Lord. This was not the place, surely! 

"John, my shirt," Sherlock's voice made John jump. He looked back at the detective, then down. His hands were gripping Sherlock's shirt, knuckles white. He licked his lips. Shit. Shit. Shit. John couldn't let go. 

"We have to move," Sherlock stumbled over the words, uncharacteristically breathless.

God, John could smell him. Sherlock. He felt hands tugging at his elbows and the two men stumbled back towards the alley. John looked up, seeking out those eyes, those lips. Holy crap this was surreal. Flashes of Mirth swept across his vision. But she was behind...oh, Benth. He was seeing and feeling everything his dragon was. Benth wasn't watching anything other than the stunning gold dragon before him.

A loud screech from the gold indicated she was ready. It was a dare. She leapt up into the night and Benth, well, he shook himself before leaping after her. He wouldn't let her go. He would follow, yes he would. 

John felt the rush of adrenaline and it almost made him fall, if Sherlock hadn't stumbled back against the brick wall.

"Sherlock," John gasped, panicked. Benth was flying higher. This was really happening. Wind rushed past, cold, biting. His wings were strong, powerful, seeking. "You knew," John breathed, crushing his face into Sherlock's neck. "You bastard. You knew."

"Not ... not about Benth," Sherlock answered leaning down to breathe John in. "Mirth's been snappy, but she hasn't eaten. I thought I could push it. I thought-" He nudged his nose along John's cheek, inhaling. 

John licked a streak up Sherlock's neck. "Sorry," he muttered and tried to pull away. Shit. "Been wanting to do that forever. Fuck. I mean-" Sherlock grabbed his face and suddenly there were lips on his. John breathed in everything. Sherlock Holmes was kissing him. _Good God_. 

Benth was following Mirth, aiming to match her pace. He's not a bronze, though... but there were no bronzes here. Even if he was a brown ... he could, he _could_ fly her!  John pushed Benth along, reassuring him, even as his own hands pressed against Sherlock, roaming over the hard planes of his chest, wishing the shirt was gone.

Sherlock's leg pushed between John's knees and John gasped. Bloody hell! Sherlock took the opportunity to push his tongue forward, lapping at John's mouth like a drowning man. John pressed Sherlock against the wall.

Benth flew higher and higher, following his quarry. Mirth gleefully dodged him, sharp-turning, swiping her wings past his flanks and she passed, her speed just unbelievable. She was unstoppable, no male could catch her.

Another bellow joined the ruckus.

"No!" Sherlock growled, grinding his hips into John. Another dragon! Large hands pulled John in tightly. This was not the place for this. John was painfully aware that things like this weren't supposed to happen in the city, and definitely not in dirty alleyways. 

Benth bellowed a response. A bronze had joined the fray, sensing Mirth's receptivity. _No!_ John growled too, his chest rumbling against Sherlock, his hands sliding down to grab Sherlock's arse. The two men ground against each other, breathing madly, erratically. No one else could have Mirth. Or Sherlock. Not today, not now, not ever. Who the fuck was interfering?

Mirth warbled her distaste to the newcomer. Benth cut the other male off, swooping around, knocking the bronze off course, knowing now how Mirth was evading them. She was fast, but he had stamina.

Mirth shot out in a straight line, shooting for distance. Benth followed suit, the other bronze bellowing in annoyance, not expecting her to change direction so suddenly.

Hah! Loser.

John felt his blood rushing, could feel Sherlock's tongue inbetween his lips, could taste his flatmate. Their hips rocked together, making both men gasp and claw at each other. John had never felt another man's cock like this. He was seeing stars. Actual stars. The clouds were clearing. Benth was amazing. Mirth was beautiful. Sherlock smelled delicious and warm and, oh. John clenched fingers into the detective's full bum. _Jesus_.

Benth felt a burst of energy and in a shot, came up alongside Mirth, he twisted, knocking her off balance, wings wrapping around her. Mirth screeched. Damnit, she was too fast! No male could catch her! Benth was trying, sweet sweet Benth. But he couldn't ... surely not ... Mirth warbled at Benth, showing at least some appreciation.  

"God, yes," Sherlock bit John's lip, a quiver in his legs as John pressed their hips together, over and over.

John's breath hitched. Benth had her! It was a done deal! Miraculous! The melding of dragon and man was blurring faster and faster. John couldn't tell where Benth ended and he began. Sherlock's breathing was completely off-kilter. John shuddered. He was close. It was almost-

" _Sherlock_ ," he bit out as his orgasm slammed into him, heat shooting through his every fibre. Sherlock's fingers were in his hair, tight as hell as the detective crushed their erections together, their trousers barely impeding them at this point. Sherlock shuddered, his breath juddering over John's lips. 

Euphoria. Absolute unending euphoria. 

John had never, ever felt anything like it. He opened his eyes, almost drowning in the heavy-lidded gaze of his flatmate. Sherlock was glassy-eyed, but entirely focused on John. "Finally," the detective growled, his baritone a rumble in John's chest.

John's groin tightened at the sight of Sherlock losing it. The taller man shook, his fingers scraping through John's hair, his lips crushing John's. 

Bloody fucking _hell_.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bam. :) Rating will be edging higher, I suppose.


	8. Wake up call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Terribly sorry about the delay.
> 
> Last time we left off after the dragons' flight and the alleyway. ;)

Oh God. Oh God.

John's heart thundered in his chest; it almost hurt. He could smell Sherlock, he was pressed up against Sherlock. Sherlock fucking Holmes.

Hands were gently rubbing at his upper arms. Sherlock's knees were bent, back pressed flat against the wall. This brought him down to John's height.

"Shit. Sherlock, I don't know what- I mean, I uh-"  
Sherlock breathed deeply, rhythmically. He leaned forward, ignoring John's stuttering attempt to make sense of ... anything. John's brain short circuited. Sherlock was breathing him in, his nose caressing John's neck.  
"Calm down, John," came his deep, resonating rumble. John shivered. "You'll stress your already overworked system."  
John pulled back to look at him. Jesus. Sherlock was so fucking beautiful it made his mouth dry.  
"But we just-"  
"Mmm..." Sherlock interrupted, voice so deep John could feel it down his spine. "And it was lovely. Thank you, John."  
John blinked. "Really?"  
Sherlock blinked, a slow smile creeping over his lips. Those lips John had almost devoured not minutes before. "I told you you would know when Benth was ready."  
John paused before answering. "Not much of a heads-up, if I'm honest."  
"Mm, males don't get warning, I suppose. With females, it's different."  
John pushed away from the wall, wincing at the stickiness in his pants. God. Sherlock stood tall again and pulled his shirt straight. John's gripping fingers had wrinkled the hell out of it. It would need washing.  
"So, uh," John cleared his throat awkwardly. "You knew Mirth was going into heat? You couldn't, I don't know, given me notice? A signal? Time to run?"  
Sherlock looked at him carefully in the dimness of the alleyway. "Are you displeased? If I'd thought you wouldn't want to partake, well..."  
John stopped to really think before answering. His hot temper may boil over at times, but he was a man of rationality. He would make sense of this, of his answer. No, he hadn't seen this coming. Maybe he'd always wondered what it was like, sharing a flight experience with someone, but, well. He had noticed the way Sherlock drew him in; how the detective was more alluring than most people. Sherlock had pretty much upset John's life, flipping it over like a paper plate in a hurricane. But John hadn't minded. It was freeing, being around Sherlock. It was unlike any other friendship, relationship he'd ever had. There were really no boundaries around the taller man. Sherlock brought out the worst in people. The fact he was a dragonrider wasn't even the main problem So had he, John, said that he didn't want this, he would have been lying. Also, Sherlock would know. Sherlock always knew. Probably had known about John's adoration from the minute it sprouted. And Sherlock had dived in head first to this ... This thing. Lordy.  
"You're playing with me," John said softly, taking a step back. Sherlock frowned. "No, wait, let me finish." John sighed and rubbed at his face. He swallowed. Then he looked back at Sherlock who was patiently observing. "You were pushing me. You knew Mirth was ready to go, but you were unsure about Benth. Lucky chance, really. You played the fool tonight."  
Sherlock pouted. John's breath hitched at the sight.  
"I mean," John continued, "you pushed your luck with Mirth. What is wrong with you? We're in bloody midtown London and you decide it's okay to bring your randy dragon along to dinner, to test me? Sherlock Holmes, you're a bloody fool."  
Sherlock cocked a brow. "Mirth was aware. She is always my priority."  
John shook his head. He felt warmth, Sherlock pressing close suddenly. His eyes went wide. "Sherlock!"  
Hands wrapped around his waist and tugged him closer. John looked up, eyes pinned by Sherlock's fervent gaze.  
"I wanted you, you know," Sherlock growled. "The impending flight just made it clearer for me. John, I never ever share Mirth's flights. I wanted to have you. I know you wanted it too. Even if Benth wasn't ready. I was. You were. Well, mostly."  
"Fuck," John groaned. Sherlock leaned in and nosed his cheek.  
"Think ill of me if you must. Think of this as my kind of overture. My opportunity, I suppose."  
John licked his lips. Sherlock pulled back to stare into his eyes, gaze hard. "Wouldn't you take a chance if it came up?"  
"Your flirting could use work," John said plainly. "Most people start with flowers, or chocolates or something. I suppose you got dinner in there, but still."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I start wherever I want." He stood, brushed his hands down his shirt and looked about. "You're lucky I even thought to pursue this at all."  
John held back a wince and sighed. He knew this all too well.

  
\---

It was surreal. John wasn't going to be able to sleep, he knew it. This was the weirdest ending to any night out ever, and he'd once come home covered in tar and blood before. They'd made a mad dash out of the alleyway. If the owner of the parking lot, or the wrecked car for that matter, came out, they'd be in the shit. Dragon damage was not popular. There's no insurance for most folks that cover such craziness. And having a gold in heat in a residential area? Blimey, imagine the fine!  
The two men walked back to Baker street. Sherlock had sent the dragons home. "Mirth knows best. Once she lands, there's no getting up until they've slept it off."  
John hadn't heard a peep from Benth, bloody bugger.  
"Sherlock, I don't know what to think. This isn't something I'm used to."  
"Not a problem," Sherlock answered as they crossed a street. "Have your crisis. Then get back to being John."  
John scowled. "It's not a bloody crisis, you arse. I just ... dry humped my flatmate in public. I need to ... Uh, calm down a bit."  
Sherlock smirked at that. "You're lucky that's all we could manage."  
John just ignored him. His trousers were uncomfortable and he desperately wanted to shower. He hoped Sherlock would let him go first.  
Once home, the two quietly walked up the main stairs, careful to not wake Mrs. Hudson.  
"What are you doing?" John frowned, noting that Sherlock had followed him up the last flight of stairs.  
"I need to check on Mirth." Sherlock's face was deadpan.  
"Oh," John almost blushed. Right. He hadn't even considered seeing the dragons first, so intent was he on showering, on escaping those searching, all-knowing eyes.  
They reached the top landing and Sherlock pulled down the hatch ladder. John tried not to ogle Sherlock's arse as he followed the man up onto the roof. He supposed this was his lot now, being caught staring at Sherlock, hoping to-  
 _No. Stop it, Watson_.

The early morning air was still brisk. The two men walked out over the rooftop.  
"Look at them," John sighed exasperatedly. Sherlock ignored him and continued.  
Both Benth and Mirth were fast asleep, curled up near each other, tails resting in overlap. It was adorable, really.  
"She's worn out," John murmured, noting how heavy and deep Mirth's breaths were. Her brilliantly gold chest shimmered ever so slightly in the dim dawn light. He moved forward to caress her.  
Sherlock stopped his hand with lightning speed, a dark look on his face.  
"Oh," the detective paused. He let John's hand go. "Reflex."  
John decided to not tempt fate and didn't touch Mirth at all, carefully walking around her to his own brown. Benth was sleeping peacefully, tail twitching ever so slightly. His crest was back to its normal hue and his skin felt warm against John.  
 _Good boy_ , John couldn't stop the blossoming warmth of pride that flushed through him. His Benth had flown a gold. The beautiful Mirth, no less. What a good boy. Outstanding performance.  
"Lucky bugger," John chuckled as Benth's wings twitched in his sleep. Getting a gold on your first try."  
Sherlock watched John. "It says a lot about his rider," he uttered quietly.  
John smiled, hand pressed to Benth's warmth, feeling his breathy rumble. "It says a lot about Mirth too."  
Sherlock grunted. John wouldn't say it, but he could sense this was where it got tricky. Sherlock may have had sexual experience before, but Mirth was his precious. She had never been flown in all these years. A miracle, even to John. This was unprecedented, and perhaps a little unnerving. Maybe Benth shouldn't have been the one. Maybe a big, weyr-bred bronze would have been better. But she had as much choice as Sherlock. She wouldn't have welcomed Benth if she didn't want him. Lightning fast as she was, the sneaky beast.  
"Let's leave them be, shall we?" John sighed and stepped back, smile not leaving his face.  
Sherlock was watching John, taking it in. "What?" John asked.  
"I gave you the impression of forcing this on you, John. The situation, perhaps, but not your feelings on the flight."  
John sighed, "I know. I'm not completely disconnected from my sanity, you know."  
"I suspected you wouldn't object. If you do, after the fact-"  
John raised his hands. "Hang on a bit. I don't ... object. Not at all. It was ... interesting, to say the least. But don't for one second think that I played a secondary role in this. I'm not that susceptible to your charm. You're not that good."  
Sherlock's mouth twisted in a half-smile.  
"What I mean-" John stuttered, realizing what that sounded like.  
"I know what you mean, John," Sherlock came over to stroke Benth's belly. He eyed John, looking him up and down. His gaze moved back to Benth, hand caressing the warm beast.  
John knew Sherlock was becoming partial to Benth, seeing the brown as more than just any random dragon. Perhaps it was because of his proximity with the beast, or perhaps Mirth's closeness to Benth. John thought it was some of that, but he also hoped it was because Benth was John's. Selfish thought, really.

\---

  
After his shower, John crashed into bed, not giving a damn about anything else. He really didn't expect to sleep but drowsiness overtook him.  
It was around eleven in the morning when he was roused from bizarre, colourful dreams.  
"What the-?" He grumbled, hearing his bedroom door open. It closed again and there was a shuffle. "Sherlock?"  
Sherlock didn't answer. He just climbed onto the bed, pulled the covers back and slid in beside John. His eyes were barely even open.  
John's heart almost exploded from the compounded terror of waking to someone creeping into his bed, and the exhilaration of finding it to be his flatmate whom he'd just recently rutted with. He wanted to have his gun in his hand. His fingers curled reflexively as he tried to calm himself. This wasn't Afghanistan. This wasn't- damnit. His breathing was shaky. _Calm down, Watson_.  
"Sherlock what are you doing?" He whispered.  
Nothing. Sherlock was already asleep, arm thrown over John.  
Well, that settled that, then.  
John frowned as he twisted, trying to get a good look at his flatmate. Sherlock wasn't acting on his own. Mirth's closeness with Benth would drive Sherlock to John, for comfort. Relationships between dragons always brought their riders closer, even if it wasn't a sexual thing. John had heard of friendships being borne out of errant mating flights. So the riders didn't have to share the sex, the dragons' closeness would ultimately bring the humans close. It was said in the old days that this was the main reason for trading dragons. Riders would assimilate into a new weyr, hoping to bring their weyrs closer. Dragon bonds were very strong. It was what made dragonfolk so hardy. A weyr was only as strong as its dragons.

This helped John rationalize Sherlock's closeness. the man had never shown any interest in spending time with John, asleep anyway. this wasn't camping, or the barracks. there was absolutely no reason for Sherlock to be here. it wasn't even that cold. John watched Sherlock sleep, wondering yet again, why the detective and Mirth stayed so far from their own weyr. It pained John, especially since he had no weyr of his own, would not ever have those bonds of dragon kinship.  
He felt Benth rumble. The dragon was asleep, but responding to his mood. John felt the heat of Sherlock's hand, where it rested on his side. This would do, he supposed.  
\---

When John woke later that afternoon, Sherlock was gone.

The detective was already seated at the desk, fingers steepled under his chin, staring at his laptop when John made his way down. No, wait, John's laptop.  
"I've told you before,"John said, snatching it back. "Use your own."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's in my room."  
"Oh, God forbid you make even the slightest effort."  
And everything felt normal again. Well, for Sherlock at least, it seemed. John put the kettle on to boil.

 _John, you're awake_.

Benth. Of course. _How you feeling sleepyhead?_ He asked, pulling out two mugs.

 _Hungry_.

John chuckled. _All right. We'll head to the feeding grounds soon_.

"Amused?" Sherlock asked loudly. "Giggling away over there. I do hope you're making me a cup."  
John turned. Sherlock was staring at the wall from his position at the desk. He looked fresh-faced and worry-free and snarky as ever.

"Benth's hungry. We'll be heading out after this."  
"Ah," Sherlock looked over.  
"Join us?" John heard the kettle click and he went back to making tea.  
"No," Sherlock uttered.  
John blinked. "Don't you think-"  
"Mirth has eaten. No need to worry."  
John turned. "You already took her out? When?" How long had the detective been up? He didn't want to feel annoyed, but the feeling still welled up. Feeding their dragons was one of John's favourite jobs, one he shared exclusively with Sherlock.  
"Mm," Sherlock hummed as he stood. "Earlier. She was in no mood to wait, so I thought not to waste time."  
"You could have woken me, I wouldn't have minded."  
Sherlock came over, looking for his tea. He snatched up his usual mug. John watched him sip. "You were asleep. Benth too. Why bother? You take far to long to rouse and I couldn't wait forever."  
And that was just so Sherlock. John held his tongue. Maybe feeding wasn't much of a deal for Sherlock, after all, the man barely fed himself. He certainly wouldn't find the communal eating ceremony of much interest, would he?

John huffed and walked away, trying to get away from the man.  
"Petulance doesn't suit you, John," Sherlock intoned as John headed back upstairs.

\---

"Petulant, honestly," John grumbled to himself as he entered the feeding grounds with Benth. The brown had flown ahead, but waited patiently for Joh. To join him. He was feeling friendly, loving. John didn't want to let his own mood spoil the feeding. Poor Benth, being dragged into John's human issues.

 _You are cranky_ , Benth said nonchalantly.

"And you're all perky," John answered with a smirk. "That's ladies for you."  
Benth's large eyes rolled in happiness. _You didn't mind, if I remember_.  
"Because you remember so much, right?"  
John patted Benth's neck, driving the dragon on for food.  
Benth was starving. His exertion the night before was above and beyond any of the training John had given him. Mirth really was fast. She'd flown high and for long enough that Benth probably wouldn't have lasted much longer.  
Lucky he could outfox the great girl.  
John watched Benth grab up a sheep. The feeding grounds were empty. It was nice and quiet, so he had his thoughts to himself. Benth had been pushy back at Baker Street, ravenous for a meal. John had spent a few moments with Mirth. The gold dragon was pleasantly content, proud of her flight. She openly leaned in for a brow scratch from John, which made John smile. With Sherlock downstairs, he'd had a chance to talk to both dragons, get their opinion on everything.  
Both were perfectly okay with the previous evening's outcome. Why wouldn't they be? They were dragons.

 _I am glad you stayed with Sherlock_ , Mirth told him.

"You might be, but I wasn't necessary, was I?"

Dragons aren't ones for innuendo.

 _Of course not_ , she said calmly. _You are not necessary for any of it. It is a dragon's flight, not a man's._

John laughed. "True."

 _Sherlock is happy. You made him happy_.

"You knew what he was up to, missy. Don't think I don't know. Scoundrels, the both of you."

Mirth rumbled. _I wanted you for Sherlock. You are brave, John Watson_.

John blinked. "I don't know about that."

Benth had nudged at his arm, anxious for food.

  
And so they'd headed out.  
John had a lot to ponder. His mind kept slipping back to the night before, feeling Sherlock shoved against him, his long legs between John's. How could he just go back to a normal existence after that? How could Sherlock just act the same? John had a bet going in his head that none of it had ruffled Sherlock's feathers. A biological imperative, he'd labelled it before. Ugh.

He wanted to do it again, he really, really did. How? Could he? Would he? Would Sherlock? John groaned and rubbed at his face.

"Sherlock Holmes, you sneaky bastard."

John fretted for a bit, trying to not get himself worked up. Sherlock had called him petulant, when 'aroused and confused' would have made more sense.

After Benth's meal, the dragon rested on the grass with John.

 _You keep thinking about Sherlock_ , the great brown said.

John sighed. "Sorry. Can't turn it off."

  
Benth rumbled. _I like Sherlock. It makes sense you do too_.

John just smiled wanly, hand resting on Benth's leg.

  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who commented and left kudos. :) I have a tumblr now, btw. nejineee.tumblr.com. Feel free to say hello.  
> Also, excuse spelling errors! I always miss some, unfortunately.


	9. What have we done?

Lestrade called one evening.

John was busy making macaroni when the call came in. To him, not Sherlock.

"Why aren't you answering your phone?" John asked his flatmate. Sherlock was sat in his armchair, staring at nothing. He had been like this for quite some time. The fact John just busied himself around the detective's absence showed how comfortable he'd become living at 221b.

"Sherlock?" John said, louder. Nothing. Not a dickie bird. Sighing mightily, he called out to Mirth. Her response in his head came much faster. 

He's in his mind palace, she said. Would you like me to call him out? 

Please, John answered. He went back to the cooking, turning the stove off. Spooning out the macaroni made his stomach rumble. Maybe he could even get Sherlock to eat this time. The detective's eating habits were beyond insane these days. He just would not eat when John was around, if he ate at all. It was annoying. His razor sharp cheekbones were probably going to do some damage if John shoved him through the window. 

"You called?" Came Sherlock's suddenly very close baritone. John jumped, dropping a spoonful of macaroni on the floor, the spoon flicking bits everywhere.

"God, you frightened me," John berated, bending for the utensil.

"You don't have to use Benth to ask Mirth to get my attention," Sherlock rumbled, strangely quiet. John eyed him.

"You okay? Mind palace a little full?"

Sherlock just stared at him, eyes roaming over John's perfectly normal features. "Mind palace?" He said softly.

John just sighed, "Anyway, Lestrade's been calling. He wants you onsite. Got another murder."

Sherlock perked up, eyes widening. 

"Yes, no evidence again, fingers mangled," John sighed. "Eat before you go?"

Sherlock snorted. "No time, John." 

Tell him to eat, John said firmly to Mirth. 

He watched Sherlock's eyes flick up and left, listening. Then he frowned. 

"You're quite the team, aren't you?" He said sharply, snatching the proffered bowl from John.

"I have no idea what you mean," John said nonchalantly.

"In our world, John, it's considered very rude to communicate via dragon instead of face-to-face."

"Oh, your world, is it? Pardon me if I live, work and eat in it." He shoved a fork at the detective, who grudgingly sat at one of the kitchen stools and took it. "You're going to run out of fuel."

Sherlock snorted, "I am not a steam engine."

"Enough hot air coming from your mouth, you could fool me."

Sherlock scowled and took a bite. John began shoveling food into his own mouth, knowing it was inevitable that Sherlock would want to dash soon. 

\---

 

"Can you calm him down?" Lestrade whined, almost begging John. "I almost regret calling him out."

Sherlock was flitting about like a bee on steroids, his words just falling out of his mouth, vitriol and deductions blending together. Some along the lines of, "Obvious! So obvious, in fact, that it comes at no surprise you all missed it, simpletons that you are."

John sighed and rubbed at his eyes. This was very similar to that first time. He imagined Mirth popping into the air again to terrify the enraged techs. Sherlock had roundly insulted all of them, their mothers and their educations without pausing for breath.

He was excited. 

"John! John, come here," Sherlock beckoned madly. As John came to stand beside the man, he was tugged down.

"What? What do your elf eyes see?"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock looked bewildered and annoyed.

John shook his head. "Nothing. Go on."

Sherlock eyed him for a moment longer then pointed over the victim laid out in front of them. A middle-aged man with rough stubble dotted across his jaw, brown hair, green eyes and a massive gash tearing down and across his torso. He was fairly handsome, but most definitely dead. His fingers were different from the last two bodies in that they were completely missing. The fingers had been torn off at the last knuckle, something John wished he had never seen.

“The murderer was impatient. Couldn’t be bothered with the shears this time. That was a misstep.”

“Right,” John nodded, brows deeply furrowed in concentration. Sherlock was seeing more, somehow.

“So far none of the victims DNA has come up on the police database. These people are either immigrants or avidly avoiding the government. Why? Why John?”

“Maybe they’ve just never had their blood tested? I don’t know. Some people can stay under the radar you know.” John turned over the victim’s hands to inspect the wounds. The palms were badly gouged too, swatches of skin been sliced off like ham. It was quite disgusting.

“Maybe they’re gypsies?” John murmured, trying to make sense of it all. “And why are his hands sliced up, and his fingers torn off? Makes no sense. The others didn’t have this.”

Sherlock was nodding fervently beside him. “Exactly. This body will tell us more. This was the mistake.”

“Apart from the whole, leaving them out for the police to find bit?”

Sherlock was looking over the palm of the dead man, where it sat in John’s latex glove-covered hand.

“Do you smell that?” Sherlock murmured suddenly. John almost wretched when the detective leaned in to smell the hand. He snuffled further, going over the victim’s arm, up to his torso. John felt like gagging. “Do you smell that, John?”

“No,” John replied.

Sherlock sat up straight suddenly. His eyes flickered quickly, as though the information in his head was laid out like a map. _Here we go_ , John thought.

“Gypsies,” Sherlock murmured. He turned to John as though seeing him for the first time. “Nomads. Travelers.”

John pursed his lips, trying to see the point.

“Any closer, lads?” came Lestrade’s tired voice. “Please?”

Sherlock ignored him, his eyes now fixed on John like a ship focused on a lighthouse. “Traveling people. Those who don’t stay in a fixed place. Oh. My. God. John, you are magnificent.”

John blinked as Sherlock leaned in to hold his face between his gloved hands. “Uh,” he mumbled. Sherlock grinned like a madman.

“It’s so clear, so bloody obvious now. They’re not on the DNA listing because they’re on a completely different one. They don’t play by the government regulations, because they don’t have to! These victims! They’re special! Different!”

“I’m not following,” John said, still unable to move his head.

Sherlock’s eyes sparked, making John’s heart thrum.

“Hallo?” Lestrade called. “Are you both dead now? Is this it? Eye-gazing?”

“Shut it, Lestrade,” Sherlock said loudly, not looking away from John.

“Explain, Sherlock,” John murmured.

 _Dragonfolk_ , came Mirth’s soft voice in his skull. She was back home at Baker Street, so it was quite a fair distance. 

John’s eyes widened. “Oh my God,”

Sherlock smiled widely, “There are we now?”

John pushed Sherlock’s hands off and stared down at the man with new dawning information. “He’s a dragonrider. Weyr-bred, a traveler. That’s why his DNA isn’t in the system.”

“Are you joking?” Lestrade piped up. “You have to be kidding.”

Sherlock looked up sharply and stood. “Dragonfolk don’t have to register their DNA with the authorities, and it’s fairly easy to flout any and all government restrictions when you can, oh I don’t know, fly in and out of the UK whenever you like.”

“But that’s breaking almost every law imaginable,” Lestrade cried, flipping his notepad open.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned, “Oh for God’s sake, man. Use your imagination! This explains everything! Why the bodies were naked: Flight uniforms are pretty damn recognizable. Why there has never been any entry, or exit evidence around the body. Dragons, of course. They can fly in, drop the body and wink out of sight in seconds. It all makes sense! But why? Why kill them? That’s the new case!”

“Hold on,” Lestrade said, pausing in his note taking. “Evidence, man. I need proof. Give me something to work with before I have to barge into the laws and regulations regarding fucking dragon-weyrs. Minefield, that.”

“This is evidence!” Sherlock cried, “If I hadn’t been here, you wouldn’t have even known that! Have you learnt nothing?”

“Sherlock,” John said sharply. “Help the man out. Not everyone can rely on your bloody brainpower.”

Sherlock groaned and made fists. “Frustrating! The lot of you imbeciles!” he spun and came back to stand next to John. He arched a brow. “Fine.”

John wondered what was going to happen next, when a cold whoosh almost blew him off his feet. A few shouts rang out on the cordoned-off street.

“Sherlock Bloody Holmes!” Lestrade bellowed, stumbling back. “How many times–!”

John rubbed at his eyes and turned, knowing what he’d find.

“Mirth, you are now a key witness in all of this,” Sherlock said loudly, petting his dragon’s golden muzzle.

“You CANNOT be serious!” Lestrade yelled some more.

“Sherlock, what are you-“ John whispered harshly, hand on Sherlock’s outstretched arm.

“The scent. I recognized it, but you didn’t.” Sherlock said sharply. His arm guided Mirth’s great head forward, closer to the body.

“I swear, if you mess up this scene, Sherlock, I will gut you senseless,” Lestrade said with bite.

“Ignore him, sweetheart,” John patted Mirth’s snout, as she rumbled.

“What do you smell?” Sherlock asked loudly as Mirth bobbed down, her nostrils flaring, sniffing the corpse. She whuffed once and pulled back.

 _Firestone,_ she said calmly.

Sherlock grinned.

“Firestone?” John frowned.

Sherlock’s grin froze.

“What’s firestone?” John asked.

Lestrade cleared his voice. “Grade-A poisonous material there, mate. Illegal.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, “It’s illegal? Since when?”

Lestrade shrugged, “Since I joined the force.”

“But what is it?” John queried. “Why does Mirth know it?”

Sherlock scowled and looked down at the body. “Firestone, familiar to all dragon weyrs. Fighting dragons ingest it and it induces gases that ignite upon re-entry into the air. Combustible formula, firestone and a dragon’s stomach.”

John’s jaw dropped. That was most definitely not mentioned in any of the pamphlets. “Are you joking? Combustible? You mean, like, breathing fire?”

“Hence why it’s illegal,” Lestrade said.

John was floored.

“So, Mirth could eat some and what? Shoot flames?”

“No, never,” Sherlock said sharply, “Golds do not ingest it. Makes them sterile. Well, I suppose if she did, she would shoot fire, but I would never allow that. Barbaric. Benth could, though.”

John had a vision of his brown shooting fire like in the fairytales. Phwoar.

“Who is Benth?” Lestrade asked.

John imagined how hard it must be to fly a dragon while shooting flame about. It’d be tough, managing the wind, and visibility would be variable too. God, you’d have to be harnessed in for that, else you could fall out. Were they really going up against dragonriders with bloody firestone?”

Wait.

John’s eyes widened. “Sherlock!”

He dropped down and lifted the victim’s hands. “Evidence! You need evidence this is a dragonrider so we can get the information on the weyrs, yes?”

Sherlock dropped down beside him as John turned the man’s hand over, showcasing the odd sliced palms with missing flesh.

“These cuts, these bits. They’re not random, or made in rage. Look at their placement.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over and John smiled when his brows shot up.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, looking up at him.

“Harnesses,” John said gleefully. “His harness scars and calluses would give him away. This guy probably flew a green or blue. They literally sliced off the evidence!”

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock just slowly smiled. John mirrored him. _Aren’t we just bloody brilliant?_

“So,” Sherlock said, standing to look at Lestrade. “That is your evidence. Firestone. Dragonrider. Harness calluses sliced off. Dragonrider. Do you need anything more before getting your arses over to the Weyr department?”

“Uh, yes, actually,” Lestrade scratched his head. “If this poor bloke’s a dragonrider, then where’s his dragon?”

John stood slowly. Sherlock just threw up his hands in annoyance and stomped away with Mirth.

“Uh,” John shifted his hands into his jeans. “There won’t be any dragon, I’m afraid.”

He winced as he looked at a furious Detective Inspector. Lestrade looked confused for a second before he realized. “Oh hell, is that really true?”

John nodded. “Yeah, apparently so.”

“Bloody fuck all,” Lestrade hissed. “So now I have to get involved with the nutters over at Dragon-rights-are-us and ask to dig into their damn records? Accuse them of hoarding firestone and tell them some nutter’s been out slicing up their people? Great. Just great.”

John sucked his teeth and shrugged. “Blame Sherlock.”

“Oh, don’t worry, his credentials will be all over this.”

\---

Sherlock had Mirth drop him and John off to pick up dinner, while she flew back to Baker Street.

The green curry in the bag he was carrying smelled delicious, so John was eager to get home.

“Closer to solving this, then?” John asked his flatmate.

Sherlock was walking along, brows furrowed, mind buried in all this new information. John hadn’t even been sure where they’d been going once they’d mounted Mirth. The detective was running on autopilot.

Sherlock looked over. He stared at John. John smiled weakly.

“You cannot leave, John,” Sherlock muttered.

John blinked, “What now? I’m not leaving.”

Sherlock sighed and bumped shoulders with the shorter man. “You are essential to my process now.”

“Ah, a tool,” John nodded. “Great.”

Sherlock stopped, “You don’t believe me?”

John laughed, “Oh, no, I do. I can easily see how I’ve become an all-purpose tool for the almighty Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock frowned and John tugged him onto the pavement, mere seconds from being smushed by oncoming traffic.

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock said, not letting it go.

“And I probably never will,” John chuckled.

Sherlock tugged at John’s elbow suddenly. He yanked John in front of him, his eyes searching. “Stop laughing. I’m being perfectly serious.”

John grinned. “Okay. Go on.”

Sherlock scowled, eyes squinting. “You’re mocking me.”

“I actually am not, for once,” John said.

Sherlock licked his own lips, pondering. “I do require your … knowledge, John. Don’t belittle that.”

“Very forgiving of you,” John said. “Are we going to stand here all day?”

“If you like,” Sherlock answered with a smirk. He licked his lips again. John felt the urge to wet his own. No. He wouldn’t. Probably be analyzed by Sherlock for it. Mirroring the object of your affection’s habits or some such nonsense.

“Get on,” John said, pushing his elbow into Sherlock’s ribs.

The two trundled off back down the street. They came around the corner, crossed to Baker Street, John’s growling stomach pushing them on.

"Oh, why is he here?" Sherlock spat out suddenly. John frowned.

"You what?"

"Can't just phone ahead, can he? Surely not even his massive head can fit through our front door?"

John followed Sherlock up the front steps of 221, the door apparently unlocked. He was sure he'd locked it, positive. "Sherlock, what is-"

"Come on," Sherlock interrupted, "Let us not waste words on his reasons why. Ugh."

John just shook his head. If Sherlock wasn't worried, then he wouldn't bother. The two men pushed forward, climbing the stairs up to apartment B.

 _All right here?_ John asked Benth.

 _Visitor,_ Benth responded mildly.

 _Do try to keep me up to date,_ John responded, slightly annoyed. _You know better than that._

He could feel Benth’s emotion. Not too bothered. _Mirth knows him better than I do._

Ah. Shit.

“Mycroft, get out,” Sherlock yelled, slamming the lounge door to 221B wide open. John followed, perhaps less dramatically. He found Mycroft Holmes seated in Sherlock’s le Corbusier, fine as a fiddle. Burglar in a bespoke suit. Bloody Holmeses.

“Sherlock, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft nodded and stood. His smile was stiff, not exactly friendly.

“What do you want?” Sherlock snapped, tossing his coat on the settee.

John decided tea was in order. After all, a man with an umbrella had broken into their home. What else to do, but make tea?

“You know precisely why I’m here, little brother,” Mycroft said firmly.

“Oh do I?” Sherlock flopped onto the settee, the picture of pure arrogance and nonchalance rolled into one.

John pulled out mugs and teabags before he heard his own name mentioned.

“You’ve dragged Doctor Watson into this now, too. What are you thinking?” Mycroft sounded pressured, like he was controlling himself. His umbrella stood firmly in his grasp.

“Oh do go on,” Sherlock sighed. “Get this over with and then leave. You’re giving me a headache.”

“Sherlock. Holmes.” Mycroft’s voice was louder this time. John paused in his tea making.

“You come from one of the oldest lines in Great Britain. You are weyr-bred. You possess the only living gold left in out heritage and you decide to do _this?”_

John was listening intently now. So, this wasn’t a generic house call. Not that he even knew that Mycroft knew where they lived. The man certainly hadn’t been seen since that awkward mating flight at their weyr. God, that felt so long ago.

 “I am autonomous, Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed from the settee, “You have absolutely no power over my movements, nor my life.”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft snapped. “Because all that has ever mattered, in all the world, is your appreciation of life and freedom. I forget how absolutely selfish you can be sometimes. But to do this!”

“Get out,” Sherlock snapped, rolling to his feet and squaring up against his brother.

“I will not leave until you have explained what madness has overcome you.”

“It is not _madness,_ you doddering old man!

“Then explain yourself!” Mycroft barked.

John came into the lounge. “All right, lads, loosen up. You’re both idiots and you both need to calm down.”

Both men turned mirror gazes on him, the acidity clear as day in their faces. Yup, brothers.

“You haven’t told him,” Mycroft said suddenly, eyebrows rising. He turned to look at Sherlock, “have you, brother?”

 “Told me what?” John frowned.

 

Sherlock scowled at Mycroft. “It doesn’t matter,” he spat. “It’s archaic.”

“Sherlock, you shame me,” Mycroft muttered. “John deserves to know.”

John flicked his gaze between the two men. “Oh, for the love of God, what is it?”

Sherlock avoided his look. Oh bugger. What had he done?

“What would it be? Three weeks?” Mycroft said, finger tapping against his chin.

Sherlock glared back.

Mycroft turned to look at John. “I’m sure you know, John. What could have happened, oh of some portent, three or so weeks ago?”

John went stiff. Three weeks and four days exactly. To be precise. He terrified himself with the exactness. That was Mirth’s mating flight. That was the night John had … had, well. It was memorable. Possibly too memorable. He would never forget it. How could he?

John cleared his throat. Not that it was any of Mycroft’s business. God, talking about sex with family? Horrifying. No wonder Sherlock hated the whole lot.

“Three weeks ago, your brown, Benth was it? Flew Mirth, our Weyr’s only purebred gold. Can you possible imagine what may have come of that? Something valuable, important even, to the health and safety of our weyr? Can you imagine my horror upon hearing about reports of a gold having a mating flight not two steps away from Baker Street? About municipal and personal property damage with no culprits?”

God. John made a face. Sherlock said nothing.

“We couldn’t-“ John began, but Sherlock looked at him sharply. _Give nothing away_ was pretty much the message.

Mycroft glared at his brother. “He really has no idea, does he?”

“What? What?” John shook his head with annoyance.

“Perhaps, not being weyr-born or bred, John, you can be forgiven for not weighing the issues here. Let me be frank. Your immigrated, Arabian blue-crested dragon with absolutely no lineage or legal qualifications has not only flown our weyr’s only viable gold but has bred her. Outside of the weyr’s periphery. The Highest class of gold was mated and flown in a back alley for all to see.”

John didn’t say a thing.

“Do you have any idea of the security issues upon this situation. Sherlock is aware, of course, but can’t be bothered to follow through. He flouts the regulations, the laws, even common decency, to put his life and his expectations above all others.”

John wasn’t listening. His heart thumped heavily in his chest. Three weeks. Three weeks, and he didn’t know.

“Excuse me,” he cut through Mycroft’s tirade. He raised both hands in silence. “Did you say, maybe I misheard-did you say _bred?_ ” 

Both Holmeses blinked at him. “Well, yes,” Mycroft answered. Sherlock had the gall to look away.

“Right,” John said sharply, trying to keep his temper in order. He turned sharply and stomped towards the stairs.

 

“John, where-“

John ignored them both as he almost ran up the stairs to the top floor, pulse racing. He shimmied up the roof ladder and popped out into the noonday sun. Walking briskly of to Benth, he gave the great beast a swift smack on the muzzle. Benth’s lazy eye opened up, hardly bothered.

“You little shit!” John hissed. “You could’ve told me! What the bloody hell are you playing at? And you!” He spun on where Mirth usually lay. He gave a yip and jumped back. The great, immense bronze from Sherlock’s weyr was seated there, its great head resting on its forelegs.

John spun. Right. There she was. He ran over to Mirth, who was resting. He ran his hands over her belly, her skin still glowing lightly in the sun, her breaths deep.

“I can’t believe it,” John whispered.

He heard Sherlock’s footsteps. The detective came to stand behind him.

“You bloody idiot,” John said quietly. “You fucking idiot. You should’ve said.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply.

“She is, isn’t she?” John said, turning quietly to eye his flatmate.”

 

Sherlock glanced at his dragon, then back to John, those pale eyes searching. “Yes. Mirth is with egg.”

 

John’s eyes closed and he groaned. Oh _God_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, story is hurrying along now. More action to follow! Thank you all for the comments and kudoses (kudoii?). Very much appreciated.
> 
> Stay in touch, if you like, over at my tumblr: nejineee.tumblr.com. :)


	10. Gone

Mirth was with egg. Pregnant. She was going to lay a clutch of eggs and Sherlock … Sherlock hadn’t told John a thing.

“You stupid man,” John breathed, turning to look at his flatmate, fists tight against his sides. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

John was fighting off his annoyance at himself. He should have realized. He just hadn’t thought of it. Honestly, he remembered that night fondly, like it was some wild car chase he’d taken part in. A night of magnificent folly. One he was very, very eager to repeat. In his mind, though, the thought of sleeping with Sherlock seemed to trump everything else. That was his end goal, he supposed. To have Sherlock feel like that, look like that again. The dragons were so secondary to him and he felt a bit ashamed. Very ashamed.

“You would have noticed eventually,” Sherlock rumbled. “A pregnant dragon can hardly go unnoticed these days.”

“Oh God,” John groaned, leaning into Mirth’s great bulk. She barely stirred.

“A dragon gestation period is hardly more than two months, John. It’ll be over in a snap.”

John just breathed, feeling the severe warmth of Mirth bleeding into his skin. She had an unearthly glow about her, something he should have picked up. He would have to read up on this now. No way this dragon was getting sub-par attention because of her idiotic rider.

“This isn’t right,” John said, standing tall. “She should be looked after. I’m not a dragon veterinarian, Sherlock.”

“She doesn’t need-“ the detective was cut off by his brother, who had apparently deigned to climb onto the roof to join them.

“She needs to be in her weyr, Sherlock,” Mycroft said sharply. “A filthy rooftop in London will not suffice.”

Sherlock spun about, furious, “Do not patronise me, Mycroft. She is my dragon. I will take care-“

“Sherlock,” John said firmly, dangerously. “This is idiotic. We cannot have her stay here. She’s a gold, for fuck’s sake! She deserves-“

“She has me!” Sherlock retorted venomously.

“She cannot hatch here!” John all but bellowed, causing both Holmeses to raise their brows. “She needs a hatching ground! She can’t be dilly-dallying about with you on murder scenes! Flying God-knows-where on your every whim. God, she’s been flying _between_! Isn’t that harmful? What if she’s _between_ too long? How can we be responsible in a tiny place like this?”

Sherlock pouted, “Pregnant females can fly between, just not too often, that’s all. Even beginner riders know that.”

That was a stab at John’s experience. John groaned again, “You’re not listening. Where will the hatching take place? In the basement? In Mrs Hudson’s kitchen? Are you mad? Even I know she requires warm hatching grounds and if she were to lay her eggs here, can you imagine it? The heat generated alone would burn this place to the ground! You cannot be serious!”

“I’m afraid John is making a very valid point,” Mycroft murmured.

“You have no say in this!” Sherlock snapped.

Benth gave a small rumble behind the brothers. _They are going to distress Mirth if they don’t calm down._ He murmured to John.

 _This is not conducive to her well-being,_ came a deep voice as well. John looked over at the bronze dragon, whose name he still had not caught. He would have to make a point of asking. Some time.

“Right. So,” John began, “We have to make a plan. She has to be home in her weyr.”

“But-“ Sherlock said.

John raised a hand. “When’s she’s ready,” John said, trying to calm down. “I’m assuming, of course, that she’ll know?”

Mycroft nodded. “A female typically can tell when she’s to hatch.”

“So we can fly her out the day of. Night of? Oh Lord, what have we done?”

“I do suggest she come-“ Mycroft said.

John cut him off. “No, she can stay here, for a bit. Unless you can have her go?” here, he looked at Sherlock, who should naturally have some say in this.

Sherlock scowled, “I don’t want that.”

“Right, well, I’m sure she will decide for herself, won’t you, big girl?”

Mirth rumbled, one eye opening.

“Exactly,” John nodded. “You can prep the hatching grounds, right, Mycroft? Have them ready for her. At least she can rest once it all starts.”

“You do know,” Mycroft said calmly, “that as the rider of her mate, you do not hold any possessive power on her clutch. Yes?”

John blinked. “Are you serious?”

Benth rumbled. Mycroft shifted. “It is law, that the weyr of the queen’s birth is held-“

“No, you bloody idiot,” John snapped, making Sherlock smirk. “You think I want her eggs? Are you _insane_? I don’t want her freaking hatchlings! What would I do with a pile of baby dragons?”

“Dragon eggs are a highly prized commodity,” Mycroft said sharply. “They are the most valuable items in any weyr. Forgive me for assuming-“

“Shut up,” John said. “Just-just be quiet.”

Sherlock’s smile was fond, if not proud. He quirked a brow at his brother. Mycroft just lifted his chin.

“Benth may be the … the father, I suppose, of the clutch, but the eggs are yours. Obviously. The hell would we do with them? Can barely afford one dragon.”

“So you’re not going to sell them on the black market to unsightly individuals for millions of pounds?” Sherlock rumbled happily.

“What?” John gaped, “No! Wait-millions? Really?”

Sherlock laughed then. Mycroft just rolled his eyes.

“This is a serious issue.” Mycroft said. “There is definite danger surrounding Mirth. I am worried about her clutching proximity to the weyr, but above all, her safety matters most. It is not good for her to remain here.”

"Is that why you’re here?” Sherlock asked. Benth rumbled again, coming closer to Sherlock. He rested his head down beside Sherlock, eyes swirling.

Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the ground. He cleared his throat and Sherlock squinted at him.

“There has been a bit of noise in the weyrs. You wouldn’t have heard,” Mycroft eyed the dirty rooftop for emphasis. “Eggs are going missing. Especially gold ones. There was a European Weyr council meeting a few days ago. The eggs are disappearing right from under dragonriders’ noses. More so than usual.”

John blinked.

The great bronze dragon lifted his head and eyed John. He was being scrutinized.

Sherlock continued to peer at his brother. “How long has this been going on?”

“And why haven’t the police been notified?” John added.

“Weyr culture is complicated, Doctor. Some work in the ways of old, taking their own laws very seriously. The police regulatory system very rarely assists in such matters.”

“But it’s still thievery,” John answered.

“Dragon eggs are worth too much. More officials have been corrupted over the purchase and resale of eggs to warrant a certain … disregard for their assistance.”

“Lestrade could help,” John said, “He’s not the type-“

“Lestrade’s no good,” Sherlock said. “but this _is_ interesting.” The detective’s brain seemed to be whirring, ticking over madly. “What do you know?” he turned to his brother.

“We have reason to believe one organization is managing the entire operation.” Mycroft said.

“Are dragonriders going missing? Disappearing?” Sherlock said.

John’s brows rose sharply. Of course!

Mycroft frowned, “Not that I’m aware. The eggs seem to be stolen stealthily. From within the weyrs, but most likely from riders outsiders. Quite a feat to begin with.”

“So you think other dragonriders are doing this?” John asked.

Mycroft thought on that. “I suspect the thieves are dragonriders, but going on the information we have, they’re most likely rogues. Not aligned with any weyrs. The organization, however, is most likely not dragon-related at all.”

“Only rogues and non-dragonfolk would go this far,” Sherlock murmured, thinking. “Weyr-life is precious, is it not, brother?”

Mirth woke fully from her sleep, head lifting suddenly. She gave a small bugle, over John’s head, to Sherlock, it seemed.

The detective didn’t look up. He eyes flickered wildly.

“I am asking,” Mycroft began, “That you take heed, dear brother. Mirth should be home, safe in her weyr. Out here, she’s too … accessible.”

“But she hasn’t laid any eggs yet,” John said, confused. “Surely, if she was being targeted, they’d wait for her clutching.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Mycroft tilted his head at his brother. A look passed between them.

Sherlock scowled.

Benth lifted his head. _Mirth must eat,_ he told John. _She is becoming flustered._

“Okay, well, thanks for that,” John sighed, turning to pat at the eager gold’s neck. She grunted and whuffed in his face. “We need time to figure this out. In the meantime, I think it’s time to feed these monsters.”

Benth bugled and got to his feet, tail swishing. Mirth followed. She lumbered over to her rider, nuzzling Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I will be back,” Mycroft said, watching the dragons and their riders get ready to leave. “Once I have more information.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said, climbing onto Mirth’s bent leg and hoisting himself into his riding ridge. John did the same, but with far less grace. Benth bobbed beneath him, eager to eat.

Before they leapt away, Sherlock called out to his brother. “Oh, and Mycroft, lock the door on your way out. And never, ever come here again.”

\--

 

_She is well fed,_ Benth murmured to John as the two settled down on the feeding grounds grass.

Mirth had flopped onto her side near the river after lapping up a tonne of water. Sherlock stood with her, his blazer moving in the breeze. They’d left in such a rush, the man hadn’t even picked up his coat.

“She’s eating for, what, ten?” John said, leaning up against Benth. Blimey, what a thing. How many eggs were even in a clutch? One? Three? Twenty?

 _She is a healthy gold, she will do well,_ Benth intoned calmly, clearly not bothered by anything John was.

John stroked his brown’s eye ridges. “Babies. Hatchlings. Wow. You’re going to be a daddy.”

Benth snorted, _Hardly._

John chuckled. Maternal instincts were very limited in dragonkind. Once Mirth laid her eggs, she would be outrageously territorial and overprotective of her clutch. But the minute the hatchlings climbed out of their shells, they were on their own. Benth would really not have much use as the father of the hatchlings.

“D’you think we’ll have to conduct a search?” John said softly.

He couldn’t imagine how it all worked. Did Sherlock’s weyr even have young weyrlings? Would they have to go out and find young riders? How many? And from where? Was it like a mass email? _Dear fellow weyrs, send us your teenagers. Ta. Mycroft Holmes._

John chuckled. _You are taking this well,_ Benth murred.

John snorted. “You should have told me, you fart. I looked like a right tit back there.”

Benth just rumbled and nudged John’s shoulder.

“It’s a good thing you’re cute,” John grouched. “Else I’d have you cut up and made into burgers.”

 _You would never,_ Benth rumbled. _I’m cute._

John laughed.

 

“Ah, and how lucky you should feel!”

 

\--

 

The following weeks were a tad more stressful than John would have liked. He was still working down at the practice, bringing in what money he could. Sherlock was of no help, of course.

Mirth continued to grow, and yes, John had to admit that he would have eventually cottoned on to her pregnancy.

She ate like a ravenous monster, causing a bit of trouble down at the feeding grounds. She was also becoming slightly tetchy. This, of course, was having its effect on Sherlock, who was nothing if not unbearable.

He hounded Lestrade, asking for his information on looking into the weyrs. Mycroft had more info to share. Seems this organization of worldwide smugglers was operating in and around London. He’d made a sweep of all British weyrs, looking for any news on missing  dragonriders or eggs. So far, none. But some new info had come to light one night, as Lestrade’s info crossed over with Mycroft’s.

“They don’t want us to know the victims are dragonriders,” Sherlock blurted one evening, bursting into Baker Street like a madman.

“Yes, I know,” John said from his armchair. “We all know.”

“Yet the dragonriders are not British!” Sherlock slammed a sheaf of papers into John’s lap. “so why bother covering them up at all?”

John picked them up and his eyes widened. “These are the victims! Where di-“

“I told him to look further. Lestrade has access to weyr information from further abroad. Seems our dragonriders were immigrant workers. True travelers.”

John looked over the victim’s details. Romanian, French, Turkish. Wow.

“It explains so much!” Sherlock almost bounced on his feet. “Smugglers, John! Dragon smugglers!”

“Okay,” John said. “they’re dead though. And how can you be sure?”

“All three had bloated bank accounts. Fifty thousand pounds each for something. Spread out over the last few years. That something, must have been transport. Obvious because if they’d sold the eggs…” he looked at John expectantly.

“They’d be millionaires,” John nodded. “So these victims, whoever they are, are doing labour for…the organization?”

“Yes!” Sherlock yipped excitedly. “And because of Mirth’s lucky position, I’ve had news! Contact!”

John stopped what he was doing. He looked up. “Excuse me, what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s face. “Oh calm yourself. The news of a pregnant gold flies like the wind. All the weyrs will know by now.”

John’s gaze hardened, “ What did you do?”

“Nothing at all,” Sherlock said gleefully. “Except for some digging around on European internet forums. You know, dragonfolk ones. Been bragging about it a bit.”

John waited.

“And someone’s finally taken the bait. Look!”

Sherlock flipped his phone out of his pocket, flicked over the screen and showed John.

“Interested … weyr in need … possible transaction … location attached,” John rambled through the email message.

He glared up at Sherlock, “You are joking? You’re not seriously going to sell, or even deal with dragon eggs, right?” The detective didn’t respond. “Sherlock.”

“I have this, John. This miniscule connection. Of course I’m following through.”

“But … what are you promising them?” _Are you mad?_

“A meeting, John. Who else would have dark dealings online of all places?”

“No. Absolutely not. Sherlock, you cannot meet these people. You absolutely cannot.” John threw the papers away from himself, heedless of where they landed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Murders don’t solve themselves, John.”

“No,” John said firmly, standing up. “I forbid it.”

Sherlock stopped his frenetic motions and stared at him. He eyes became slits. “You _what?”_

Oh bugger. Wrong words.

“Your _forbid_ me from doing so? Since when are you my weyrleader, _doctor?_ I don’t ever recall handing over the reins to you.”

“This-this is madness, Sherlock! You’d be putting yourself and Mirth in danger! You cannot be serious!”

Sherlock stepped closer, locking gazes with John. “Oh, I am very serious. When have I ever not been?”

John felt his blood boil. Of all the dumbest- “No. No, no, no, Sherlock. You know, for one of the most intelligent people ever, you have such insane moments of idiocy-I can’t, I can’t even-“

“Go on, John, tell me how much better a man you are than me. Go on. Explain how my sociopathic tendencies border on lunacy. Tell me, Doctor, how much better you are than me.”

“I wasn’t-“

“Oh, shut up!” Sherlock whirled away then came back again, clearly not done. “You think that because you shared Mirth’s flight, her only flight, with me that you have _any_ say in what I do? That one night makes you my keeper? That you know _better than me?_ Don’t fool yourself, John. My priority has and always will be my dragon. My work. My own. Not that of a failed soldier and part-time physician to the masses. You do not own me. You do not own Mirth.” He said this with such venom, as if spewing vitriol at John was perfectly normal.

John didn’t know what to say. He felt pale. Those words cut through him like a scalpel, cleanly separating himself from Sherlock, eviscerating his hopes of bringing the man around.

“I just-“ John stuttered.

“I’m going back to the weyr,” Sherlock snapped. “don’t expect me back. Mycroft will have news.”

“Wait, Sherlock,” John made to grab the man’s arm. Sherlock batted him away. The taller man stormed off towards the stairs.

John stood there, blinking, alone. God, what a mess.

 _They are leaving, John,_ Benth said in his head. _Are we going with?_

“Not this time,” John answered.

_I don’t want them to go. Not without us, John. It’s not safe._

“I know,” John whispered, fear clutching at his heart. “I know.”

 

 

\--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Action! And thanks all you wonderful reviewers!


	11. Down we go

John sat alone for about an hour before deciding to move outside and sit with Benth.

His brown was a little despondent, knowing his mate was elsewhere.

_Sherlock was angry when he left_ , Benth said, curling himself around John, who sat with his back against Benth's neck.

"Yes he was," John sighed. "I might have crossed the line."

_They'll come back,_ Benth said _. Mirth will bring them home._

"At least we can rely on _her_ ," John murmured. "Are you still in contact?"

Benth rumbled, _She's been silent since they left. Not uncommon._

"Mmm," John frowned. "He's such a pillock sometimes."

_From your tone, I take it that is a bad thing?_

"Yup," John said, popping the last consonant between his lips. "I know he's a freaking genius, but Christ, does he have to be such an arse too? The smarts to arse ratio is out of balance."

_You like Sherlock_.

John rubbed at his face, his hand muffling his voice. "God, Benth. If only that was all I needed. If only you could just like someone, and then somehow they'd be tolerable, no, tolerant human beings. Sherlock's ridiculous."

_You still like him_.

John sighed. Dragons had such simple views, maybe more advanced ones. After all this time with Benth, John was still surprised by the world his dragon could see. Benth managed to bring John back down to earth every time. He had always hoped Mirth had the same effect on Sherlock. Who knew? Mirth might be the only reason Sherlock hadn't dug out a secret spy lair under Big Ben. She might be the only thing keeping him sane. John thought maybe he too was contributing to that, helping Sherlock see things better. That giant brain was probably too much to handle. he had to let off some steam, right? But ... aggravating as Sherlock was, John really did enjoy his time with the eccentic detective. Sherlock just glowed with promise, revelatory, eye-opening promise. He was brilliant. He was exciting, he made John feel wanted.

 

But Benth did that too. John looked at his dragon's great head where it lay beside him. Benth's closest opalescent eye was on him, unwavering.

 

"We've been through so much," John whispered. "We were so alone, for so long. It was always just you and me. What would we do now, if Sherlock's stupid and belligerent, with a pregnant gold no less?"

 

_Sherlock and Mirth are smart. They will be fine. After all, one is a dragon._

 

John smirked. Ah, the logic of great beasts at the top of the food chain. "I suppose."

 

\---

 

John woke with a shiver. God, he'd nodded off. It was late. Benth eyed him. "Ugh," John stood, his leg twanging. "Not my smartest idea."

 

_You were talking in your sleep._

 

John yawned and stretched. He looked about the dark rooftop. Sherlock and Mirth weren't back.

"Any word?"

 

  
_No, still quiet_ , Benth said.

 

John frowned. "Okay, well, I need to go get a blanket and check my phone. I'll be back. Might as well stay with you."

 

He headed down into the dark flat. He sniffed. Something smelled good. He located the baked banana bread with a note from Mrs. Hudson. How sweet. He grabbed a chunk and bit into it. God, he was ravenous. Where was his phone?

 

He checked the coffee table, then the desk. He was too knackered to even bother with the lights. He heard a buzz. Oh! Coat. Right.

 

He dug his mobile out of his coat, the banana bread warm and delicious in his mouth. Must remind Mrs. Hudson to bake more often.

 

He flipped the phone open. Five texts? Two missed calls. Wow. Mardi Gras.

He read three messages from Lestrade. _Advancements in the case_. Looking for Sherlock, it seemed.

Two from an unknown number.

 

\- Do tell my brother he has to pick up his phone sometimes. MH

John frowned.The second message was also from Mycroft.

\- And if you would pick up too, that would be most helpful. MH

The same number appeared in his missed calls. Shit.

John pressed to call back.

"Doctor," came Mycroft's sharp, clipped tone. How had he even known John's number? Unnerving.

"Uh, yeah. Hi. You called?" John said, starting to climb the stairs to his room. He could drag his duvet up onto the roof.

"Yes, I assume Sherlock is not in the vicinity? I have called him more than enough tonight."

"Not here. He left, has he? So he's on his way back?"

There was a pause. "Ah, John. Where is he supposed to have been?"

John frowned. God, these Holmeses. "He said he was heading to the weyr. He's been gone most of the afternoon."

He thought the line had gone dead it was quiet so long. "Hello? Hello? Mycroft?"

"Sherlock did not visit the weyr. Not today. Are you certain-"

John stopped at the door to his room. What? "Of course I'm sure, he said he needed to talk to you. You had news, didn't you?"

"I did have news. Hours ago, but he has het to respond to me."

John's hand started to shake. He took a breath. "You missed him then? Maybe he left a messa-"

"Sherlock does not leave messages. He prefers shoving his obervations in people's faces directly or not at all. John, where is my brother?"

John's heart stopped. He felt cold.

"John?"

"I-he said-"

"What did he tell you?" Mycroft's voice was overly calm.

"He said he had more information on the smugglers. Was talking to someone online. Oh God. Shit. _Shit_. Sherlock."

John turned, forgetting about his blanket. He clambered up the rooftop ladder.

"John, calm down," Mycroft said, as though sensing John's impending meltdown. "Online smugglers? What was he planning?"

"He wanted to meet them! The idiot was blabbering about luring someone, some people, I don't know! The fucking idiot! Idiot!"

John's voice shook, whether with rage or terror, he couldn't be sure. Jesus, Sherlock was gone. Gone! "You're saying you never saw him at all today, and I've been sleeping it off while he's flown off to God-knows-where with his pregnant gold, to meet fucking smugglers who have already slaughtered three dragonriders in the name of getting their hands on fucking dragon eggs? Jesus."

"He took Mirth?" Oh, now Mycroft was paying attention. "Where, John?"

"I have no idea!" John had come to a harried stop, in front of Benth. The brown's head was up, his eyes following his rider intently. John's eyes were wide, horrified, barely seeing. "He had an email! A web forum! Something!"

He heard Mycroft muttering, hand clearly over the mouthpiece.

_Benth!_

John stared at his dragon. Benth stared back.

_Find her. Find them._

\---

_ Earlier... _

 

Sherlock and Mirth lifted hastily into the air. Benth crooned below, watching them leave Baker Street.

_Benth asks where we go_ , Mirth said.

"Leave him be," Sherlock growled. "We don't need them."

Mirth rumbled, clearly in disagreement.

"We've got to go now." Sherlock looked out over the expanse on London. The sun was sharp, making him squint. They needed to be a higher. The email sent had an image attached. The picture had clearly been taken nearer to sunset. it was too early for that. He'd memorized the points, fixed in the position of the shadows, making sure the present would carry over correctly into their trip. It was tricky to match time of day when going _between_. If he just used the same exact image, he would likely wind up in another time, past or present. One discrepency could shift their landing behind or ahead in time, unplanned. Going forward was annoying, as he simply lost time. Going back was disorienting, as being in duplicate in the same time frame was taxing on anyone. He was certain they could get this right. With no stars in the image to guide him, it was a tad tricky. He wanted to land today, this exact minute, not yesterday or two years from now.

He brought the image to mind. A warehouse, most likely an old aeroplane hangar. Going off the containers and storage debris, it was in In disuse somewhere. Not much else to go off. He envisioned the arched, high rooftop, the open hangar doors, the wide open concrete of the main floor. This photo was all he'd been given by the forum member. His only clue forward. Perhaps this was nothing, but he never overlooked anything. He could pop over quickly, see what there was to see. His penpal would be expecting him later. This was perfect.

"Ready?" He asked Mirth, slipping the image to her, so she could fix it into her mind.

_We may be going far. Leave a message with Benth?_

Sherlock snorted, "Is this what happens once you mate? Dependent on that brown? Leave him be. We'll be back before you know it."

Mirth snorted in return. And then they were gone.

Darkness enveloped them and the bitter cold stung at Sherlock's exposed hands and face. He stilled his instinct to inhale. There was no oxygen in between. A fruitless exercise.

"Guh," Sherlock gasped as they burst free of between. It wasn't as dark as between, but the light was gone. The sun. Right. They were indoors. He shook his head. Between was slightly disorienting, especially going from a great height and back down again. He saw walls, open hangar doors. Yes, perfe-

Mirth gave a sudden, mighty jolt, a wild screech erupting from her. Sherlock fell forward. Shit. His hands slipped over her ridges. What?

He felt the air rushing past him, Mirth writhing, trying to flap her wings. Her entire body shook, neck wending wildly, her cries piercing.

_My flank. It hurts._

Sherlock tried to turn, tried to see what was wrong but Mirth lost height, dropping suddenly. She bellowed loudly as her wings tried to beat harder.

There. Something. Sherlock almost lost his grip on her as she slumped heavily onto the concrete below. Mirth wailed as voices rose up around them.

"Down! We've got her down!"

"Get him off her!"

Sherlock barely had time to react before he felt pressure and was dragged forcibly by his foot, right off Mirth's neck. His eyes were only for his dragon.

_Mirth!_  

She couldn't respond, her cries petering out as her head dropped to the ground, legs giving out.

Sherlock twisted, elbow connecting with whoever had grabbed him. He heard a sickening crack. Lower jaw, broken.

Another set of hands wrapped around his neck. Sherlock grappled, feet kicking out. Fingers dug deeper into his throat. Not a firm hold. He kicked again, throwing his weight backwards. He heard a grunt and the hands relaxed. Sherlock snapped the offending arms forward and a voice cried out in his ear as a body slammed into him. Pull hard enough and you can dislocate a shoulder or two. The man wailed in pain, flopping to the ground.

"What are you waiting for?" Someone bellowed and then there was a knee connecting with Sherlock's back. He fell forward, face being shoved to the floor.

_Mirth!_

Her voice was a faint mumble in his skull.

_John. Must. Call John_. She wailed pitifully, eyes swirling madly. Her head tilted against the cold concrete and she let out a pitiful warble, resonating across the darkness of the hangar, a sound Sherlock had never heard from her, not ever.

Then she went silent. Sherlock's spine stiffened. "No!" He bellowed, pushing at the weight pressing his torso down. Hands grabbed at him, his arms, feet. He twisted madly. "Get off me!" He had never had a moment of silence like this. His ears rung, his thoughts whirled. _Mirth_!

"Can't you do anything right?" Came a crisp, lilting voice, slicing through the chaos.

"He surprised us-"

The clipping sound of brogues indicated someone walking closer. Slow strides, smooth, confident.

"I said you could disarm him, not play-wrestle him, boys."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Get on with it."

Sherlock growled madly. A hand shoved at his skull, smashing his forehead into the concrete. Dazed, trying to lift his head again, his vision blurred. He grunted, "Get. Off. M-"

His skull exploded with piercing pain and the last thing he saw was his gold dragon slumped on the other side of the hangar, unmoving against the cold, dark concrete.

 

\---

 

"Benth, where is she?"

_I do not know,_ Benth answered. _She is quiet._

"We have to find them. Sherlock's gone, God, I don't know. He fucking lied about where they were flying off to."

Benth rose to his feet. 

_John, I cannot hear her. She may be far away. Very far._

"Damn him! That arrogant piece of-I'm going to-ugh!"

John heard his phone cracking in his hand. Shit.

"Mycroft," he barked into it.

"Rediscovered technology, John?" The Holmes sounded annoyed now.

"Tell me you can find them."

"I have every available dragon contacting them. I will look into this email you mentioned."

"But Sherlock has his phone. Oh! I'm hanging up!"

"John!" Mycroft barked. "Listen, do. I have called my brother. He is not responding. Perhaps the two of them are too far out of range. Calm yourself."

"Calm? What is your family made of? Ice? How can you be so calm? What if they- what if-"

"What if what? We cannot help them if we lose our heads, John. My people are looking into this. I'm going to ask that you stay where you are. I will get as much information as I can and report back. Do you understand?"

"Let me help. I can-"

"Do you understand, John? _Stay at Baker Street_. They may come home. As much as I have impressed upon my brother the need for dragon tracking devices, he has never quite seen it from my point of view. We must ascertain their whereabouts the old-fashioned way."

John ground his teeth. Fuck! He didn't want to wait! He wanted to ... to. Damnit, do what? Fly around London like a fool? God, Mycroft was right. He wasn't of any use in this.

_John_.

His head snapped up.

Benth was close, eyes focused on him.

_I hear her. She is faint. Can you?_

John hadn't thought to look himself. He snapped his phone shut and slipped it into his back jeans pocket. 

Of course he should have tried too.

_Mirth? Can you hear me? Mirth!_

He strained to connect with her, pushing every iota of his attention in her direction. He wasn't sure how it all worked. When he wanted to communicate with any dragon, he could typically see them, or at least imagine where they are. The better he knew a dragon, the easier it was to stay in touch. Besides Benth, Mirth was his other dragon of choice. He was fairly used to contacting her, even for menial things, such as what Sherlock needed from the shops, or whether the stupid detective was even in his room, or sneaking out to deduce crime scenes.

_Mirth._

He felt. Flicker. Something.

So faint, it was barely a whisper.

_Mirth! Can you hear me?_

_She isn't answering_ , Benth said, breaking his concentration. _But she hears. Try to see what she sees_.

John refocused. He tried to sense her, rather than hear her.

Nothing.

"Damnit!" John bellowed. This was terrible, absolutely beyond horrible. John could do nothing. He had no idea where Sherlock was and it was crushing his heart in terror.

 

\---

 

Sherlock's head was throbbing.

Someone had bashed in the back of his head, if the wetness on his neck was anything to go by. He lifted his head. Not horizontal. He scrunched his shoulders. Ugh. Constricted. Twine. How pedestrian. Twine bound his arms to the back of a chair. A small chair with abnormally long legs. A bar stool with a back. He would have to mind tipping. Annoying. His legs were cramping as they hung. He couldn't feel his feet. Bound too tightly.

His breathing was shallow. He had to open his eyes, but who was in the room?

_Mirth?_

No response. His stomach churned. No. He felt sick, revolting. His stomach lurched and he wretched, his chest and stomach straining against the bindings.

"Oh my,"

Sherlock tried to breathe, hasping. Mirth. He cracked open his eyes. It was dark, much darker than before.

A laugh echoed around him.

Sherlock grunted and winced as he lifted his head. Warehouse. Hangar.

Mirth.

"Mr. Holmes. You decided to join me, I see." That voice. It was familiar. It was sharp, twisted, the Irish flippancy twisting the vowels. Sherlock focused in the dimness. A man sat in a chair not two feet from him. He wore a dark suit, impeccably tailored, shoes to match. Brown brogues. He sat relaxed, one ankle resting on the opposite knee.

The man smirked, showing clean white teeth.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi."

Sherlock breathed heavily. Moriarty. He filed it away in his 'important' folder.

He felt for Mirth. A whisper. Oh god. He'd seen it. The feathered dart. A tranquiliser. Shot when they'd appeared.

But where was she now? He couldn't see her or anyone else in this dark, cold hangar. Had they moved her? No. Too large to move. Too delicate. They'd moved him instead. The packing crates were gone. This warehouse was emptier, its doors closed to the outside.

"Where..." Sherlock breathed, his head heavy. He could feel the strain, connecting synapses, making his mouth move accordingly.

"Tut tut, Sherlock. Mustn't waste your breath. Can't have you dying just yet."

Sherlock lifted his head higher until it lolled on his shoulders. God, it hurt.

"Aren't you just dying to ask questions? Or have you figured it all out, hmm?"

Sherlock looked through his sweat-damp fringe. This man was insane, clearly.

"Moriarty." He said, his voice rough. He coughed. 

The man grinned widely. "We finally meet. I've been looking forward to this day for a long time."

How long? How long had he been watching?

"You're wondering how long I've been watching you. Mmm, yes. I'd wonder too."

"You wanted Mirth," Sherlock rasped. "You wanted a pregnant gold."

The man's face actually lit up. "Oh, very good. To the point indeed. You suspected, but weren't sure, were you? Pity. And here I was hoping you were blinded by your own self-importance. Thought you could figure this all out in one moment. Unravel it all in one meeting. Your name precedes you. Disappointingly so."

The man laughed suddenly. The sound echoed sharply across the empty space.

"What idiocy."

Sherlock licked his lips. He tasted blood. His head throbbed painfully.

"Enough of that," Moriarty breathed, dusting at his knees and standing up. "Glad to see you're awake. Don't wait up for me."

"Wait," Sherlock breathed.

Moriarty just waved as he walked into the darkness. "Be back later!" He shrilled.

_Wait._

 

\---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh lordy. Here it is. Sorry for delays and weird line spacing. :) thanks to all my new tumblr followers too. I seeeee yooouuu.


	12. Into the wild

 

This was madness. John was certain he would go mad. Pacing hadn't helped, nor had breathing exercises. John's hands were stiff from clenching them constantly. Sherlock was missing. Mycroft had checked in three more times over the course of the evening. It was late now. One o'clock in the morning and still no word on Sherlock. Lestrade had been notified, been in to get word from John and promised he would get his team out to scour the city, though, to be honest, a grown man out on his own for a night wasn't cause for alarm. To John, it felt like more than one evening. It felt like decades. He just knew, _knew_ Sherlock was in the shit. Where else would he be? Down at the pub? Laughable.

Benth was talking to the other dragons, keeping John in touch with the weyr. Mycroft had called in all members he could, enforcing a country-wide search for one of their only gold dragons and her very precious, annoying rider. Seems they had military-grade operations in place. John had listened when Benth relaid the dragons' instructions. It was not being monitored by Scotland Yard, no, it appeared to be an in-house maneouvre, orchestrated by a Holmes with far too much information on how such maneouvres were to be executed. Fat lot of help, though.

"Still nothing?" John said wearily to the quiet lounge.

Benth responded quickly. _No. I will let you know. Perhaps you should sleep, John._

John rubbed at his face. His stubble scratched at his palm and he knew he was fading. He should rest. He really should. But Sherlock. Out there, with ... who knew?

_Perhaps not sleep_ , Benth added, _a shower? Refresh you?_

John stared at his mobile, the small black piece of plastic the only modern channel he could hope for in connecting him to his flatmate. The stupid thing wasn't lighting up anymore. No texts from either Lestrade or Mycroft. Useless.

Maybe a shower was in order. Smelling like crap wasn't going to keep him awake, that was certain.

He stood brusquely, stared at the quiet, dimly lit flat, devoid of Sherlock's usual obnoxious presence.

He tilted his head, feeling the crick in his neck, clenched his aching fists again and walked out towards the linen closet to grab a towel. Some fresh clothes, a shave and perhaps some tea might help lighten his mood.

He started towards the bathroom and abruptly turned about, stomping back into the lounge to snatch up his mobile. It was going to sit on the sink. Damn it all if he missed something.

 

-*-

 

The aeroplane hangar was cold. Sherlock shivered, feeling the dried blood crackling along his neck. His hands were numb from cold and the twine. He'd been left alone for hours, it seemed. No more light was available to him, his eyes squinting into the dark. Nevertheless, he had managed to catalogue the room's contents and space before he was completely lost in the dark. There were two main hangar doors, presumably for the ingress and egress of light aircraft. Ostensibly, there was a hinged door with a lock as well. Maybe an office. There was a pile of aeroplane parts against both main walls. This was a repair yard. Clearly in disuse, as not a single aeroplane had passed overhead since Sherlock had woken. No, not an airstrip in use, perhaps a dead airport? But where? Not Britain, surely.

He knew he was alone. It had been hours since the (clearly maniacal) man calling himself Moriarty had made his appearance.

So this was the force behind all these disappearances? Interesting. Slowly, the threads of information were intertwining, connecting like a web. It was all revolving around dragonkind. Typical.

Mirth was fading in and out, her mind a mess. She couldn't communicate, it seemed, which meant they were keeping her drugged. How they intended to care for her was beyond him.

That is, if they intended to. 

Sherlock shuddered suddenly, his head feeling like lead. He winced and his stomach roiled. God, he was going to be sick. He tried to calm down, breathe. His bindings cut into his wrists. Vertigo. Sickness. What was wrong? Had they drugged him too? He gagged and retched, heaving because of his empty stomach. He couldn't throw up, he was already depleted of energy, dehydration wouldn't help the matter. He felt faint, heavy. The darkness swirled, the blurry shapes wending and waving. 

This went on for a bit, his stomach clenching and his head lolling.

Then, it stopped. Very suddenly, the dizziness disappeared and his stomach settled. He inhaled, chin tight against his sternum. Oh.

 

-*-

 

John clicked the kettle on and toweled his hair. He'd shaved and scrubbed himself to within an inch of his life. His jeans and shirt were fresh out of the dryer. It helped, a little.

He grabbed his woolen jumper, feeling the morning chill. Slipping it on, he felt a semblance of falseness settle over him. He glanced over at his phone. It was still on the kitchen table. No light, no vibration. He paused. Mrs Hudson had gone to bed hours ago.

The flat was quiet.

_Benth?_ He asked.

_Yes?_ Came Benth's calm voice.

_Is everything all right?_

_Yes_.

John remembered his need sometimes to be explicit.

_Any visitors? Strangers?_

_No_.

Right.

John sighed and walked over at the click of the kettle.

He pulled down a mug and stopped, hand mid-air. A floorboard creaked.

He spun around, tossing his favourite mug at the unwelcome visitor.

The tall man on the other side of the table ducked, the mug smashing loudly on the floor beyond, shards of porcelain scattering across the room.

John's heart froze in his chest. It felt like his lungs couldn't inhale. Or exhale. 

"John," Sherlock said, raising a brow at the broken crockery. "Reflexes in order I see. Good."

The tall man was wearing his long coat, the collar pulled up against his sharp cheekbones. His crisp black bespoke suit seemed unmarred. The familiar dark hair curled around his brows and ears, his skin soft and smooth as always. But those eyes, those pale blue eyes never stopped scanning John, searching, looking him over. 

"What..." John breathed, his chest swelling.

"No time," Sherlock said bluntly, "you must listen." He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, fingers flying over the keys. He seemed to be searching for something. John swallowed. Was he dreaming? Had he actually just dozed off? Sherlock was home! He was safe! God, he'd have to call Mycroft, let him know.

John was blinking rapidly. "You're okay. You-where've you been? Why didn't you call?"

"John," Sherlock said suddenly very sharp. He came round the kitchen table, hand grabbing John's elbow. "I need you to look at this. Memorise this." 

"Wait, wait," John cried, ignoring the long fingers wrapped around his arm. "What are you playing at? Your entire weyr is currently on-"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and glared at John, his fingers tugging the shorter man close. His gaze stopped John's words. He looked desperate, worried. His pale eyes flickered over John's face, like he was taking him in. Deducing, perhaps. Sherlock bit his bottom lip, brow furrowing, then yanked John to him, his lips crashing into John's.

John's eyes went wide, his mouth already partly open when the soft, wet intrusion of Sherlock's tongue struck him dumb. Sherlock's one arm pinned him close, so tightly, John wondered if his ribs might crack.

Sherlock pulled back suddenly, still pinning John close.

"Listen to me," Sherlock hissed. He pressed his mobile into John's palm. "You need this."

John barely had a moment to blink, nevermind respond before Sherlock was away from him, moving towards the landing and eventually, the door.

"Sherlock!" He stuttered, "wait, what is-"

The detective stopped at the first landing and turned to look up at John. His eyes roved over John's appearance again. He seemed displeased. "Put your jacket on before you go."

And he was gone, long legs carrying him down the stairs.

"Wait! Sherlock!"

Like _hell_ John was going to let him go . Not after this mad night. What the bloody hell was _wrong_ with him? Fuck. John ran after him, thundering down the stairs and out onto the street. Shit. It was cold. John ran into the middle of the quiet, dark street. He spun about, searching. Nothing. Not a damn thing! Where was he? How in the bloody hell could he move so fast? Bastard!

"Damn him!" John yelled, expletives spewing from behind his teeth. Fuck!

He spun about and ran back indoors.

_Benth! We're following him!_

_Following who?_

"Sherlock!" John bellowed, storming up the staircase. He almost ran past his room and paused. His coat. It was hooked on his door handle. Had he put it there? Growling, he grabbed it, yanked down the rooftop ladder and began the mad scramble upwards.

 

-*-

 

Sherlock jolted up. Someone was here.

He blinked. A lantern moved across the room. No. Not a lantern. A torch?

"Coo-ee," came that uncomfortable voice. Moriarty.

Sherlock shifted and grunted. His wrists ached. His legs were driving him mad.

The man came into view, his footsteps slow and casual, uncaring.

Ah. A mobile lit up the man's face as he chewed, what appeared to be gum, very enthusiastically.

He grinned at Sherlock, clucking his tongue. "Bit of a mess, aren't we?"

Sherlock stared back, memorising that face. He lurched in his seat, the tall chair rocking dangerously.

"Hmm," Moriarty hummed, eyebrows rising. "Legs a bit numb? Pity. I was just going to ask you to go for a walk. Ah well."

Sherlock scowled. "Where is my dragon?"

Moriarty smiled, twirling the phone in his hands. Blackberry, just like Sherlock's. the fingers paused and flicked the phone upright. A light flicked on, making Sherlock squint. A flash.

"There. Lovely. Think I really captured your good side," Moriarty said, turning the phone so Sherlock could see his own image, tied to a chair, blood dried on his face and neck, bruises rising, shirt muddied. He looked like hell.

"Ransom? Really?" Sherlock spat. "Rather beneath you, isn't it?"

Moriarty twirled the phone some more. He smiled broadly. "Usually. But I see opportunities wherever they appear. Who knows? Maybe a bit of playing with that weyr of yours will cheer me up? Working them into a froth sounds divine."

"You didn't kidnap me for ransom."

Moriarty let out a howl of laughter. "Kidnap you? Oh no, Sherlock, have you already forgotten? My boys must have really done a number on that skull of yours. No, you walked in here. Like a rat to cheese, of course."

"You wanted my dragon."

Moriarty pulled at the lone chair he'd left behind last time. He sat down and sighed. He set his phone down, face up, on his knee to give them a little light.

"Of course I wanted your bloody dragon. Or, more to the point, what's inside your bloody dragon."

Sherlock waited. Madmen always wanted room to speak. Why stop him? Sherlock already knew everything. How could he not?

"I didn't really think you'd show up on our first meeting. That did surprise me. Perhaps people have spoken too highly of you, Holmes. I was hoping to play on this for weeks. I even had a bunch of actors and personas ready to go. All to fool your great, deeply intelligent mind."

Sherlock just stared at him.

Moriarty grinned like a cheshire cat. "But you were eager, weren't you? All you dragonriders, with your sheer arrogance. Thought you'd gotten all the facts."

"You killed those riders." Sherlock rumbled. The grisly deaths came to mind. Torn open chest cavities. Nameless faces. Dead.

Moriarty waved a hand, "Pish. Simple business. Dragonriders are messy workmen, you know? Always think they have higher morals. Not true, of course. Still managed to swipe eggs right from under their peers' noses, the rascals. Thing is, Holmes, when you hire a man, or woman, let's not be sexist-"

"Oh, wouldn't want that," Sherlock sneered.

"- when you hire a _person_ to be unfaithful, bask in their disloyalty, you have to put in extra care so as to time their inevitable betrayal somewhere along the line."

Sherlock peered at the man. "So you killed them because they were disloyal to you in turn. How? Did they decide that hatchlings were indeed too precious?"

Moriarty chuckled as though Sherlock had made a quip, "Indeed, no! No, no, my dear Holmes, they were horribly distrustful through and through. Dragonriders for you. Couldn't give a fig about the eggs. It was money they wanted. I just cut them off at the knees when they got stroppy."

"So you want me to think they disobeyed you somehow, _got stroppy_ , and you had them killed off? Hard to believe."

"Oh?" Moriarty raised a brow.

"You're a psychopath. Pardon the obvious. You killed them for no reason other than the fact they were dragonriders. You clearly hold a deep grudge against dragonkind. Deep-seated arrogance and fear driving your madness. Is it because you've always been told they're of a higher breed than you? Or were you bullied by one as a boy? Surely you didn't expect to become-"

Moriarty's manic grin disappeared. There it was, the maniac.

"Ah," Sherlock smiled, ignoring the twinge in his jaw. "You were picked on search. Once, failed? Oh, maybe twice even? And denied a hatchling. Goodness me, that is unheard of."

Moriarty stared at him now, eyes cold and lifeless. He picked up his phone, spinning it in his palm.

"Perhaps you weren't selected because dragons tend towards like-minded individuals. Ones with fortitude, balance and bravery. Not everyone has all three traits, but at least one would guarantee-"

Sherlock could have predicted the blow. Moriarty moved quickly, using the back of his hand as it flexed around his mobile, smashing into the side of Sherlock's face. The detective's neck snapped to the side, throwing him off balance. The chair swayed, then toppled, crashing to the ground. Sherlock winced as his arms were wrenched, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall.

Moriarty kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Sherlock gasped for breath.

"Nice deduction. Terrible delivery," Moriarty said, with no change in his voice. The violence came naturally. "I'll be sure to keep your gold under, make sure this duress of yours doesn't distress her."

Sherlock coughed, his voice rasping, "You can't kill me. If I die, she does too."

He couldn't see Moriarty's face, but he could sense the smile. "I wouldn't be too sure of that. We keep her sedated long enough and she won't even know you're gone."

His feet retreated. The man was walking away. "After all, why kill you now when I have other methods of extracting those eggs from her. Experienced veterinarians do it all the time, don't you know? Pay a man enough money and even an honourable doctor is willing to slice open a gold or two for the precious reward inside."

Sherlock froze. No.

"Ta for now," Moriarty sang, his voice further away. "Try not to die just yet, will you?"

 

-*-

 

When John reached Benth on the rooftop, the dragon was already on his feet.

"Sherlock was here. Why didn't you say anything?" He barked at the brown.

Benth's eyes followed him as he flung on his jacket.

_I did not know._

"Mirth would've been here too! You didn't sense her?"

Benth lowered his head to meet John squarely. _I did not_.

John glared at the dragon. Damn. Benth wasn't one for lying. No dragons really were.

"So what? He just showed up unannounced and didn't bother to get Mirth in touch? Does that even make sense?"

_I do not know, John_.

"That man...Jesus," John's hand clenched. He blinked. He lifted his hand. Sherlock's blackberry sat in his palm. He stared at it for a moment. Sherlock had said ... something.

Fuck this. He flicked a button and the screen lit up. No password. In fact, the photo album was open. Only one image was there. Odd.

What was this, then? He clicked again. _Bugger_. The album closed. Stupid bloody phones. Grumbling, he tried to navigate the mobile, using the main clicky pad thing. Confounded device. He was certain now that sherlock used this model so as to not give anyone a chance to figure out his phone at all.

"There," he sighed as the photo album opened up once more. He selected the image and it filled the screen.

"What on earth?" He peered at the photo. A warehouse? A dark bloody warehouse. Brilliant. Great. What the hell was he supposed to do with this? He tried to zoom in. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was dark, boring, empty for the most part. Boxes? Crates?

Then he remembered. Sherlock had said to take his jacket. _Before he went_ ... where? He blinked, his pulse picking up. This photo... it ... bloody hell. None of this made sense. Why would Sherlock disappear then reappear hours later with his fucking mobile phone? Why give it to John at all? Why not just call? Why not stay and explain himself? Was John supposed to meet him? At this warehouse? Why not say so?

Sherlock was gone again and John hadn't even told Mycroft yet. Mirth hadn't identified herself to Benth. That was odd in itself. 

John breathed. This was very, very odd and it gave him shivers down his back.

Right.  

He had to go where Sherlock was. Somehow, some way, the detective had given him this clue. 

John looked at Benth, whose wings were flexed high.

"Still no word from the weyr?" John kept his voice calm.

_Nothing_. Benth responded.

"Right. Let me up."

Benth bent his head low, giving John ample room to reach up and swing his leg over the neck ridges. He settled in, telling his stomach to calm down. He wish he had his Sig. No time now. Whatever this was, Sherlock needed him.

He stared at the phone one more time, pinning every detail of the photo into his mind. He patted Benth's neck.

"Ready to go help that bastard?"

Benth rumbled in agreement. _We go to Sherlock and Mirth. We go_.

John took a breath, passed the image to Benth and they flicked into between.

The cold nipped at his cheeks, the darkness invading his every sense. 

He hadn't thought much of what they were flying into. He had no idea what, or who to expect. All he knew was that Sherlock needed him. If that was the last thing he knew, he would still act accordingly, no matter the cost.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah, an update! Thank you all for the feedback/reviews.


	13. Terror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, folks!

 

The quiet was disarming. Sherlock shuddered, feeling the cold running from his shoulder as it lay pressed to the icy concrete. How much longer? How much more could hope to wait for? Moriarty was definitely going to kill him, that much he was certain of. But when?

 

\--*--

 

"She's going to come around soon, sir," the soldier, Barclay, said loudly upon their boss' return.

Moriarty strode casually but purposefully into the warehouse, face alight with glee. The man turned on his heel and surveyed their accomplishments.

"Better keep her under, then shouldn't we?" He crooned. "We might be terribly far away from any other god-awful beasts, but she can't be allowed to get to _him_. No hope for him, I'm afraid."

The boss meant the detective. The dragon wasn't to contact him under any circumstances. Barclay nodded and waved his men over. There were eleven in total, all fully armed and trained professionals. He told one to fetch the vet. More drugs, now. Quickly. They might have her restrained, but beyond her telepathic issues, he didn't want to have a full-grown dragon coming awake with the power of a three tonne tanker behind her. They could be vicious, these golds.

The dragon was breathing shallowly, her breath ghosting just beyond her flared nostrils. What would the animal know or see? They couldn't be sure. Dumb beasts, the lot.

The men were scattered around the warehouse. Not that there was much to do. No expectant visitors, to be sure. The doors were casually guarded but the sound of aircraft would be more of a giveaway. No one was going to find them, not out here.

"Ready at the muzzle!" Barclay bellowed, indicating that the men prepare for the beast's possible aggression if she woke before the vet managed to get his fat arse over here. 

"Strellson!" He snapped at a younger officer, "Stop mucking about! That's the last ti-"

A blast of cold, frigid air blew through the room and sounds erupted from all around. Men shrieked and ducked, the clattering of weapons being dropped made Barclay's head snap to look over. Strellson was screaming like a stuck pig, hands covering his face where he fell. The roar that followed almost deafened them all.

Barclay stumbled back. The boss stepped back too, shock and rage tearing across his face as the horrific image of a dark, bellowing dragon erupted across their vision. _Bloody hell! Where? What?_  

"Sir!" Barclay yelled, legs shaking as he ran over to the man.

Moriarty said nothing, just scowled as the rest of the men scrambled about, grabbing at their weapons.

Gunshots rang out, thundering against the beast's bellows. The immense creature landed heavily, the ground shaking under it's girth. It's head wove and wended about, belching roars while its talons tore at the ground, cracking and scraping bits of concrete.

Bullets seemed to have no effect. The monster raised up onto its hindlegs and came crashing back down, shaking the walls, the very foundation of the hangar.

"Stop them!" Moriarty yelled, grabbing Barclay by the collar viciously. 

"Weapons down! Weapons down!" Barclay bellowed. "Cease fire!"

The men backed off immediately. Many ran back to him, backing away from the immense monster before them. They were rattled. Most had quivering hands and frantic, short breaths wheezing up from their chests.

"If any of you aim another gun, I will _personally_ skin you!" Moriarty hissed. 

"Sir?" Barclay didn't have a clue what to do from here.

"Get over there," Moriarty shoved him. "Earn your day's pay, for once."

 

-*-

They'd done it! John had felt euphoric on landing in the vast openness of the warehouse, but to what a furor! Benth went crazy almost immediately, his instincts breaking out, dying to defend his queen. Mirth! Mirth was here!

John held on frantically as the shouts and ringing gunshots battered his ears. Benth bellowed deeply, sending a current through the entire space. A threat, a warning.

_They must get away from her!_ He growled in John's head. _What have they done to her?_

What indeed.

Thinking quickly, John sat up high on Benth's neck. The dragon's rumbles were tinged with fury, unlike anything the dragonrider had ever heard. He needed to figure this out, and quick. Damn Sherlock for not giving him anything else. There were people here!

He scanned the terrified men in the room. Many scattered, others had their weapons raised and were firing. John ducked. A bullet singed past his left knee, gouging Benth's flank. The dragon bellowed and twisted while John tried to get his bearings.

_Benth! Focus!_  

A voice was yelling over the mess. A leader. A man.

The soldiers, which they clearly were, dropped their sights and backed away. They made a shaky circle about them. Benth's head lowered almost to the ground and he bellowed. John winced. This was a fight display, for sure.

"Calm him, Doctor Watson," a shrill voice chimed, almost muffled in the bellowing echo. "Calm him."

John turned and in the messy lighting, saw that the armoured man who had yelled before had moved quickly across the room.

"Mirth," John breathed, heart catching in his throat. There she was, their beautiful golden queen.

John's eyes were wide, scanning.

"What have you done?" He whispered in horror.

She lay there, her scales dim and unglittering. The _savages_ had constrained the great beauty. The familiar opalescent eyes were closed, her head lolling on the floor, her body limp, tail completely still behind her. Fear fluttered inside John. He was too late.

The bastards had built an industrial cage over her neck and head, heavily reinforced with steel piping and bolted to the ground. It pressed her neck to the concrete, along with other restraining shackles that had her tail, legs and forelegs bolted down to make her immobile.

But why wasn't she responding?

_Mirth!_ John cried to her.

He could not hear any words. Just a faint presence, like he was looking at her through a fog.

_She is not able to speak_! Benth said to him, clearly beside himself. 

"Finally, got your attention, have we?" the sickly-sweet voice said. John had difficulty looking away from the gold. Beneath he and Benth stood a man. He was the only one in a suit; crisp and clean-cut, not a hair out of place. John eyed him, taking him in, reminding himself that Sherlock ... Sherlock would do the same. Oh God, Sherlock.

"My, _my_ , you boys do tend to surprise me. Tut tut, Doctor. You weren't aupposed to find us."

John cleared his throat and jutted out his chin. "What-" he began but was cut off.

" _Get down, John_. Let's talk."

Benth rumbled and bared his teeth, taking a step forward.

"I don't think so," John said hoarsely. "You're not exactly in a position to debate."

The man just grinned widely, as though John had made a witty joke. "Oh, but I still think you should come down. Wouldn't want your ... dragon chatting to anyone nearby, now would we?"

John sucked his teeth angrily. Who was this freakshow? Did he honestly think he'd be just hopping off Benth for no reason other than to chat? To walk into a roomful of armed soldiers with nothing to protect him? Rubbish.

"I think you may want to listen, though," the man cooed, head tilting as his eyes swung over to the side.

John glanced back at Mirth. He stopped everything. 

"Benth. Hush."

The gunman, the big guy from before, was standing beside the sleeping dragon. God. The man had a massive hunting knife pressed against her burgeoning, soft underbelly. John tried to breathe. They wouldn't...

_Benth. They might hurt Mirth. I need to get down._

_No_ , Benth argued. _They cannot do any of those things. I can stop them_.

 

"Go ahead, tear him apart," the man in the suit said, his voice lilting with glee. "I've got ten more trained weapons experts at the ready."

 

At that, the armed men raised their pistols, rifles. John pressed his palms to Benth's neck ridge. _Benth_. 

_They cannot_! The brown said back. _They cannot hurt her! She is our queen._

"They can and they will." John's voice was soft, barely a murmur. "Let me off."

Benth twisted his head about in disagreement and hissed. John's heart thundered in his chest. Mirth had to be alive. He had to check if she was okay. And where was Sherlock? Every scan of the room showed no sign of him.

"If I come down, you have to let me see her," John spoke clearly.

The suited man smirked. "Of course. Just so long as you and your dragon don't try to scurry off."

John swallowed.

Benth whined but lowered his head slowly, eyes not leaving the gunmen. 

John climbed down, fully expecting to be grabbed.

No one moved.

The strange leader quirked his head. John stared him down and stepped forward, hands in fists beside him. Calm, he had to remain calm. Find Sherlock. He'll know what to do.

"Go on, then," the shrill voice echoed about the cold space.

"Sir-" the soldier beside Mirth spoke up.

The leader cut him off with a glare. He waved John on. Benth rumbled and made to follow John.

 

"Ah!" The besuited man crowed. " _You_ stay." He eyed Benth hungrily, scarily.

John walked towards Mirth. She wasn't responding at all.

When he reached her great head, his heart broke. The gold was dull, her face lax. He pressed an arm between the metal piping, his hand smoothing over her snout. She was still warm. Oh thank God. He could feel her breaths, her inhales and exhales slow.

"What have you done to her?" He croaked out.

"Just a a mixture, a concoction of drugs to help her." The man in the suit was moving carefully back and forth in front of Benth, gaze roaming over the brown with obvious fascination.

"Help her?" John asked, fury welling deep within him. He scratched at her brow crest. Mirth gave a soft whisper of breath.

_Mirth. Can you hear me_?

Nothing, but she was there, ever so slightly.

"Can't have her freaking out and damaging those precious eggs, you know."

John winced. Of course it was the eggs. Poor girl.

_Where is Sherlock_? John asked. _Is he all right? Can you feel him?_

"Back away now, John."

He hated it, his name on this man's lips. Who was he?

John dragged himself away from Mirth and looked up at Benth. Very clearly, he said, "She's fine, boy. You can relax."

_Keep checking on her_ , he mumured internally to Benth. 

John strode over to the leader who had called his men around him.

"Lads, looks like Doctor Watson understands the situation, don't you?"

John scowled but nodded.

The man leered. "Excellent." He flicked his hand, "Get to it."

John blinked.

"Sir?" The large soldier came over.

"I think you can finish off the other ... issue."

"Yes, Sir," the man saluted and signalled to his men.

"You too," the suited man snapped.

The soldier frowned. "I don't think-"

"No, you don't do you?" He sighed dramatically and smiled at John. "Minions rarely listen, do they, John?" He glared at the soldier. "He's not going anywhere, not while the gold is restrained." The man flicked his gaze towards Benth. "You see that monster? Betting that's his mate, don't you know? Hardly keen on leaving her, now is he?"

Benth rumbled, teeth bared. John stared at the strange man. 

"Mr. Moriarty, Sir, let me restrain him."

Moriarty. Right.

John watched the two bicker before the boss just waved his hand. "Fine. Two gunmen stay. The rest of you, get on with it."

The troop of soldiers stomped out, some smiling amongst themselves.

The burly one roughly grabbed John's shoulder.

"Oi!" John retaliated, elbow flicking back. The man grunted but moved fast. He grabbed John about the neck in a chokehold. Fuck, he was big.

John fought against him, but the guy wasn't easing up at all.

Benth moved in suddenly. The soldier twisted, John tight against him. His hunting knife reappeared.

"Don't," he hissed at the dragon. "I'll slit his throat."

Benth's hot breath wafted over them, but he came no closer.

_Back_ , John said to Benth. _Play nice. You have to look after Mirth. She is your priority. Stay back until I say_.

John wanted to just let Benth have at them, but he needed to find Sherlock. Killing anyone wasn't on the menu just yet.

Benth growled but stepped away.

The soldier shook John and pulled him further away. "Good, little dragon," he hissed in John's ear. "Knows authority at least."

The one other soldier left came running over. John was twisted about painfully before he felt his hands pulled together behind him. He was being tied up. Shit.

"Where is Sherlock?" He cried suddenly, feeling like beating about the bush would've been in vain. The terrible thought that Sherlock wasn't even here terrified John. What if he was too late? Where had the long-coated git gotten to?

The burly soldier shoved him and John stumbled to his knees. 

"Where do you think the others have gone?" Moriarty said sweetly, bending down to stroke John's cheek. His manic grin was beyond unsettling. "I've got my dragon. _Actually_ ," his eyes flicked up, "Now I've got _two_."

His fingers grabbed John's chin and pushed it up. John railed against the soldier behind him and the man in front of him.

Moriarty's dark, soulless eyes stared back at him. "I don't need _both_ dragonriders."

John's eyes went dark. "Where. Is. Sherlock." His hissed.

Moriarty laughed. "As if I'm going to tell you. Although... I suppose I could. Not as if you're getting on your dragon ever again. Can't go anywhere, can you? Not without your beast of burden."

He leered over John, licking his lips, gaze falling over Benth. "And he can't leave his rider and his queen, can he? How pathetic. Such is the loyalty of all dragonkind. Sickening."

Moriarty stood and dusted off his suit. "You see, Barclay? The fickleness of dragonfolk. Brotherhood and family. Such rubbish, isn't it? They always speak about standing together and holding their own, yet ... is it really freedom to be shackled to a monster? Neither can be separated. Well, except by death. But that causes problems. No, this idiot, and every other dragon-riding fool, cannot be without his beast. Did you know dragons will overlook all rules of brotherhood and loyalty to save their own riders? It's true."

Moriarty walked back a bit and stood, legs apart, hands behind his back. "It's why dragons are such useless weapons. They only care about their bloody riders, no one else. Selfish animals. Selfish riders. I could set this building on fire and that animal," he pointed at Benth, "that beast would only try to save him." His finger dropped to John. "Forget the queen. Forget the eggs."

John was silent through this. He was trying desperately to calm himself.

"Where is Sherlock?"

Moriarty smiled down at him. "He's fine. _Well_ , when I say _fine_..." Here Moriarty twirled his right hand about, a blackberry having appeared in it. John couldn't look away.

Moriarty flicked the device about, thumb tapping langurously at the keys. That phone.

Moriarty smirked.

John breathed deeply. His phone, the one Sherlock had given him... had he dropped it? John sat back on his legs, as though slumping. No, he could feel it in his jeans pocket.

Then what...?

Moriarty flicked his own phone about, showing a bright image on the screen. John squinted.

His eyes widened in horror.

"Sherlock," he breathed, voice tearing.

Benth rumbled behind him in response to the visual.

The image depicted a close-up of his flatmate's normally pale, handsome face. The face in the picture was covered in blood, the sticky blackness of more dried blood was clumped in the few dark curls that were visible. A split lip. Bruising was coming up, even in the sharjp flash from the phone. John's heart dropped to his gut. _Jesus Christ_.

He felt a stirring at the back of his mind. Mirth was there, ever so gentle, her presence also reacting, John hoped, to the picture.

"My boys are heading over to him right now." Moriarty crooned gleefully. He stared at his phone screen with joy. "We don't need him, you know. Fascinating as he appeared, I've come to realize that Sherlock Holmes isn't what others dreamt him to be. What a sad, sodden letdown. Oh well, _c'est la vie_!"

"No!" John gasped. "Wait! Don't let them-"

"Let them? Oh, Johnny boy, they _want_ to. Relish the thought, those hoodlums. And while they're off breaking bones and cracking his face, I'll still have my little pregnant gold. Vet's on the way. Isn't it lovely?"

_John_.

Benth was growling in his mind.

The presence in his thoughts was stirring, murmuring.

_I know_ , John answered.

Mirth was not talking, not yet. But she was there, ever so subtly.

John wanted to look at her, see her, but he daren't.

_Come on, girl. Wake up. Wake up for me, for Sherlock_. 

Flashes shone across John's vision. Purples, greens, yellows. They flashed in and out, wavering, swimming.

John closed his eyes briefly. He dropped his head as if in grief.

_Come on_. He pushed. _Mirth_.

Silence. John heard nothing at all. He lifted his head slowly, the colours settling before him, the grey shapes, the strips of white, of moving shadows. Flickerings.

John stared up at Moriarty as he saw what Benth saw. There was no question, no doubt. Regardless of what Moriarty meant about dragon loyalty, John knew the answer. He knew that this was it, his last moment. That Sherlock was going to be beaten to death, that he was going to suffer as well. That Mirth was nothing more than a beast-filled monster for this madman. There was no escape for John. No way for him to get them out. Even now, if he wished fervently for an emergency helicopter and squad cars filled with police officers, he knew they wouldn't come. He had no last wishes.

_Go. Now_.

Benth huffed once, spread his wings wide and did the unthinkable. He did what no other dragon had ever done before, not in the history of man, not in any natural way. He went between and left his dragonrider behind.

-**-

_Smack_! Sherlock moved with the punch, his wobbly legs barely able to keep him up. The soldiers had untied him and now it was he against them.

_Fine_.

His jaw ached and the blood stung his eye, but he knew, he knew, he wasn't just going to get fucked over by a bunch of street hoodlums gone military.

"You ... learnt that swing from your brother," he gasped, spitting at the ground. The soldier that had thrown the punch just took another swing. Sherlock nailed him one in the gut, even if he got a few rangy scratches for it.

"Shut it!" Another soldier bellowed, kicking Sherlock firmly in the back. Sherlock winced and fell, hands skidding on the concrete. His fingers were numb, either from injury or the constraints. Couldn't be sure.

A boot stomped on his wrist and Sherlock yelled, the jarring pain shooting up his arm.

Definite hoodlums.

"You fight like a girl," another soldier sneered, hand digging into Sherlock's hair and tugging him to his feet. Sherlock grinned into a swarthy face. 

"Why thank you," he purred and kicked for all he was worth. The man buckled over, breath gone, balls probably reascended. Sherlock jumped back, the circle of men shifting.

"Really? Nine against one?" The lisp was annoying. Damn lips. "Allow me to congratulate you all on graduating from the school of arrogant insecurity and overcompensation. Your mothers must be proud."

All he got was glares. Sherlock smirked. A man shunted forward. Sherlock spun, caught the back of the guy's neck with his elbow, _whack_ , over the knee and face-down into the concrete. Definitely lost a tooth or two.

Sherlock breathed heavily. He felt woozy, maybe even hungry.

"Mixed martial arts. Terrible form. Working on it, thou-"

Oof! A fist came out of nowhere and connected with his jaw. Sherlock's head snapped aside and fuck, that hurt. _Fuck_. He didn't have a moment to recover. They moved in. Another hit to the solar plexus and Sherlock almost choked. He fell forward, bent over one knee, the other leg giving way. Shit. This was bad.

Sherlock couldn't breathe. He needed to breathe! Inhale, damnit!

God, the floor was cold, his shirt was ruined and ... oh god, it hurt. He rolled onto his back.

Wincing, Sherlock curled away as a tall man approached. He stared down at the detective, lifeless eyes uncaring.

Sherlock's eyes widened as the man produced a switchblade from his pocket. 

That he hadn't bargained for. This was no meeting of minds or martial skillsets. Sherlock could see in the man's eyes what he planned. Stab beneath the ribs. Maybe another above the hip, give a bit of a twist. Maybe slash a forearm, tear arteries. 

This was going to _hurt_.

He gulped for air, shoes slipping against the concrete. Sherlock could barely raise himself on one elbow as the man stepped closer, a murderer bearing down on him. What happened next was like nothing Sherlock had ever known. One minute he was gasping for air, the next, a roar not unlike that of a monstrous demon filled the entire hangar, rattling the walls, the floor, the roof. Wails went up, panicked, stricken men fell as a massive brown dragon appeared, wings flung open, taloned feet spread wide, tail thrashing. Sherlock stared up at the long, scaly neck directly above him, the giant head lowering to bellow as the giant feet carried the beast forward. Panic broke out. Hysteria.

The men screamed and screamed as the tail whipped through debris along the wall, tossing wood and bits of metal at the men. The dragon turned, head slamming one man right across the room. He crashed into the wall, rattling the frame, then slid heavily to the ground. The limp body that remained was unmoving. Terror. The men fell over themselves as Benth lunged, mouth snapping, breath burning. They didn't even raise their guns, they simply fled. One fell and was grabbed by Benth. The dragon hoisted the man up high, dangling by his legs, then threw him into his fellows. 

Sherlock could barely hear a thing. He just stared, agape, up at the magnificent beast.

"No," he rasped, scrambling up, legs wobbly. Sherlock couldn't believe it. He had never in all his years seen or heard of such a thing.

"Benth," Sherlock breathed faintly, hand shaking.

Sherlock was dumbstruck. The soldiers were either dead or battered. Sherlock didn't care.

"Benth," he repeated. 

The dragon was still rumbling dangerously, head swaying about, looking for enemies. Then the animal lowered his giant muzzle to push against Sherlock's chest.

Dragons loved their owners. Dragons would die for them. Their fervent loyalty and unwavering adoration was tied to one person. It was proven, time and time again, that a dragon's affection could not be won outside of being emotionally bound to it. 

Benth had come. Alone. _To him_. Benth, John Watson's dragon, had come to save him. This young audacious beast had ... left his rider and come to Sherlock. No order on earth could compel a dragon to leave its owner. 

Sherlock stared into one massive, swiveling eye. "Benth. Where is John?" He said firmly.

The dragon rumbled hoarsely against him, wings fluttering. He whined deep and loud and Sherlock stood still.

As if stung, the dragon jolted up, head flicking left. He gave a sharp wail.

"Benth, what-"

Sherlock stepped back and as his right foot landed to balance him, he heard a ringing gunshot from a fair distance. It sounded hollow, as if shot from underwater, but resonant.

Benth's head careened back, pinions clenched together and he emitted a piercing, reverberating shriek that made Sherlock cover his ears and stumble back. It was a shrill sonic boom-like noise filled with horror and pain and absolute, crushing terror.

_John_. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaah! I know nothing about organized hoodlums, so there you have it.
> 
> A special thanks to everyone who waited patiently or who left comments or kudos. It's great. Also, I would love to reblog more folks on Tumblr, so say hi over at nejineee.tumblr.com too. *waves*


	14. Grieving souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prior to this, Benth and John flew between to find Sherlock.  
> Moriarty is crazy. He sent goons out to Sherlock. Benth left John to save Sherlock and then a gunshot was heard.
> 
> Apologies all round for the delay. This was a toughie for sure. Thank you everyone for the wonderful comments and kudos (here and on Tumblr). *bows to you*

"No, damn you!" Moriarty yelled. John hadn't a moment to flinch before the man stormed forward and grabbed him by the shirtfront. "You little _shit_ ," he hissed, the madness in his eyes bleeding forth. There was the core, the moldten fury, the maniacal man hidden under the human mask.  

 

"Sir!" Barclay said. "Where has the dragon-" 

Without a word, Moriarty released John, leaned over and snatched Barclay's gun. John felt the man behind him grunt, knowing it would have to be hefty yank to get any sort of weapon free. 

"Shut. Up." Moriarty hissed. He looked down at John, his rage more than evident.

A resounding rumble shook the floor and John gasped. It was hollow, distant, but unmistakable. Emotions and images flooded through John, giving him some insight into what was going on. _Benth_. John couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his features. 

Moriarty let out a roar. "No! The men! That bloody animal! You've ruined it all! How did you-" he stopped and took a step back. "No, nevermind. I don't care. I can deal with you here and now. No need to drag this out." He eyed John. "You have lost me my dragon. You little shit."

John breathed deeply. He stared right back at the madman, shoulders back, chin cocked, and smiled wider. "It was worth it." And he meant every word.

Moriarty snarled, raised his arm and fired.

 

-*-

 

Benth wailed, his massive head aloft, his tail flicking madly.

"No no no, Benth," Sherlock got to his feet and ran over to the beast.

_Mirth!_ He called out. _My queen, talk to me._ His mind raced. 

_Sherlock_ , she answered blearily, her thoughts whirring. _John_.

She was trying her hardest to stay with him, bless her strong heart. 

Sherlock grit his teeth, jaw aching. _Calm him! Calm Benth. Please, try! He cannot go between, do you understand me? Do not let Benth think John is dead. I'm coming._  

Sherlock carefully approached the brown, his heart thundering in his chest. "Benth, listen to me." his voice was hoarse, shredded. The dragon keened into the quiet of the hangar, the ebb of sound aching into the dullness around them. It was a soulful cry of sadness.

Sherlock swallowed, his head reeling. No, he had to hold back the thought, the possibility ... 

" _Benth_ , take me to John."

The dragon was just out of reach, his head weaving about in pain. Sherlock raised both arms high. "Here. Benth. Take me to John." _Please!_  

The great beast whined so low, it reverberated in Sherlock's chest, right up his spine. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut. The thought of John hurt, in danger, it crushed his soul. He couldn't possibly imagine what Benth was feeling, knowing his rider was in pain, peril or worse. "Please, Benth." He felt warm skin press against his palms.

When he reopened his eyes, Sherlock found himself staring at the giant muzzle and darkened eyes of the only other dragon he'd bothered to take note of. Those unfathomable depths spoke volumes.

"We need to check on him," Sherlock said, controlling his voice. "We need to get help. Save Mirth."

Benth gave a deep whine, his eyes closing. 

"Take me," Sherlock whispered.  

The sudden cold and epic darkness was all encompassing. Sherlock had felt its chill many times before. On occasion, he'd pondered about the effects of _between_ , its empty void, its inability to sustain life. Every book on the matter spoke of how easy it was to be lost in _between_. Some dragonriders in old age, or from pain, would sometimes take their final leap into into bleakness. They chose to end their lives, chose to take their dragons with them; a better option for both parties. This contributed to the fact that there were very few burial sites in Great Britain dedicated to dragonriders. With no bodies, there were no graves. Sometimes, this was seen as barbaric and unsentimental to outsiders, but it had always made sense to Sherlock. To have control right to the bitter end? He was partial to that. But now, he needed to get out of _between_. There was a reason, a _person_ on the other side. He hoped. He had to push Benth through. If the brown felt John's passing and stayed right here, right now, then all this business would have been in vain. It was such a risk. Sherlock would be lost with him, John would be dead and Mirth... Mirth would never remain behind without her rider. 

_No._  

He could feel Benth's muzzle between his fingers, that was all. His skin was warm, but cooling in the frigidity. 

They burst into the other hangar, Sherlock falling back as Benth pushed forward, against, moved without him.

The room was littered with bullet casings and debris. Sherlock rolled quickly, Benth's giant feet stomping over and above. He ignored the twinges in his shoulder. He saw Mirth, his gold, his beauty, shackled to the ground like a depraved, senseless animal. He heaved a breath and tried to stand.

_Wait. Don't be fool_ , he told himself. Or much more of a fool.

He paused, the noises around him echoing, thundering in his already punished skull. Benth had surged forward, his bellow tearing like fire across the space.

Moriarty. He was fast, slippery, but Benth was faster. The besuited man was grinning like a psycho, gun in hand as he fired upwards. Benth roared and snapped forward, jaws massive and deadly. Moriarty laughed and backed away, bullets exploding before him. Going by the model, Sherlock knew there wasn't much ammunition left. Benth took no heed, his head wending and waving sharply, wings spread wide in aggressive posturing as bullets whistled past, skating across his flanks. He loomed above Moriarty, like a black wave and before anyone could utter a sound, before Moriarty had time to widen his eyes and greet death, he snatched the man up between his jaws, shook his giant head violently and let the prone body slam to the ground like a sack of dirt.

The blood spatter was everywhere. Sherlock, shocked as he was, had to admire the handiwork. The force alone had aided in separating the torn flesh, exposing muscle, bones and much, much more. Once again, proving a man was nothing more than meat and marrow. Even the megalomaniacal one. 

A body was slumped on the ground nearby. 

John? No, a soldier. Sherlock turned and realized he'd appeared right beside his flatmate. "John!" He breathed, immediately reaching out. John was facedown on the ground. Sherlock moved him, hands shaking. He was heavy, solid and still. Blood seeped out, sticky and warm against Sherlock's cold fingers and John's jacket. Warm blood. 

"John!" Sherlock yelled, eyes flicking over the man's body. His fingers pressed to a throat. He was shaking. Damnit! He felt faint. The world was turning, twisting. He was cold, he was thirsty and John ... John...

His fingers painted ghastly stripes on his flatmate's neck and face. He was dirtying John with his own blood. 

Benth was like an unearthly shadow above Sherlock as the great beast curled his neck around his rider's prone body. He whined piteously, painfully. His immense bulk limited how close he could get to them. he paced around them, his tail and wings twitching. He nudged at John's arm, whined and bugled morosely. Sherlock noted the blood on the brown's teeth and muzzle. A beautiful creature brought low. 

A soft clicking sound made Sherlock look over. A black mobile had slipped out of John's jeans pocket. Sherlock snatched it up. He didn't have time to question where John's phone was. This was someone else's. He needed to get help.

The phone came to life, the last application still open. A photo. 

He tried to breathe evenly as his bloodied fingers flicked over the mobile digits. The _one time_ he was grateful for having Mycroft's bloody number memorized.

Sherlock fired off the message as dizziness overcame him. He bent low, face over John's cheek. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't help. Damn it all.

_Mirth,_ he said faintly even inside his head, _Keep Benth here. Even if John ... if John is ..._  

Everything went black.

 

-*-

It was cold. 

He was in bed, an unfamiliar bed.

Sherlock breathed, wincing. This was familiar, but definitely not home. The sheets were rough against his skin and he felt cold. He clenched his toes. Cold. 

"Awake at last," came a voice. 

Sherlock moved his head, the weight and pain throbbing across his skull. Moriarty. 

He opened his eyes. Blinking took some doing. He was woozy, sedated. Not a new feeling.

"Mycroft," his voice was rough, throat dry and scratchy. He coughed and tried to sit up.

His brother was at his side. Sherlock managed a scowl. Mycroft picked up a glass on the bedside table and poured what appeared to be water from a jug. "Drink. You're parched."

Sherlock tried to grab the glass but whatever was clinging to his wrist limited his movement. He wanted to yell. Mycroft held the glass to his lips and Sherlock drank. 

Sherlock slumped back, holding back a groan as his muscles ached. His shoulder felt like it had been steamrolled.

He glared at Mycroft. 

"Five days." His brother said. "You've been on an IV for most of the time, owing to your severe dehydration. The doctors have made stabs at your lack of nourishment, though, really, who wouldn't? Based on your already pointless appetite, anyone could have made the estimate. Even without the kidnapping I'm sure you would have been at death's door soon enough. Mummy would be unhappy about that." 

Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes, not only at his brother's droll tone, but at the annoyance flushing inside because Mycroft knew exactly what he'd been trying to ask. 

"A dislocated shoulder, broken carpels, multiple bruises and lacerations can all add up to quite the messy canvas." 

Sherlock ticked through the injuries, noting, yes, everything hurt. His fingers were particularly tender. 

"You're lucky you weren't shot." Mycroft said, voice much lower, quieter. Sherlock looked at his brother. He was lucky to be alive. 

"John," Sherlock rasped. "Where-" 

Mycroft frowned and looked away, out the window. Sherlock felt his head swim. 

"You think of your flatmate before your gold. Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft's gaze settled on him once more, pity more than apparent. "What has become of you?" 

"Where ... is John?" Sherlock gritted his teeth as his head throbbed. He lifted his hand to touch his own cheek. Swollen, tender. God, it hurt. 

"He is in surgery."

Sherlock's eyes went wide. "He's not-?" 

Mycroft's gaze was hard. It reminded Sherlock of his schooldays, when he'd been caught messing with the school chemistry supplies, or for making his teachers cry, or pushing the limit with his dragon. Mycroft was always the one who had to swoop in and clear up his messes. Cover up his mistakes. Sherlock had grown into a man determined to be free of it all. He had Mirth, he had a new home. He had John. 

"What aren't-" he coughed and tried to sit up. It was hard going, but he managed. He eyed his brother. "What aren't you telling me?"

Mycroft stared back, calculating. "This is his second surgery."

Sherlock daren't speak.

"Upon arrival, he was rushed into emergency and the priority at the time was to keep him alive. They managed, but only barely. Do you understand, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock just glared at him. 

"Once they were sure he would withstand it, they made to remove the bullet." 

Mycroft sighed, stepping back so as to settle into the guest chair.

"Right now, they're going in to attempt to save the use of his arm. His shoulder blade has been shattered and he's lost a lot of blood. Internal bleeding caused them to take him in early once more." 

Sherlock swallowed. Oh God, what was happening? Why was this happening to John, of all people?

"He came to ... to help me," Sherlock breathed. 

" Let's not dance around the operatives here. He flew in to _save_ you, Sherlock. Blind heroics. John Watson flatly ignored all my orders to stay in touch and left, somehow, to go save your imbecilic -"

Here, Mycroft had to pause and inhale.

"If it weren't for the GPS in the phone you'd texted me from ... Sherlock, you're a bloody fool sometimes."

"But how did he-"

Mycroft frowned. "If you do not know, then how should I? My people are investigating it all. You both left quite a mess behind, I might add. Awful cleanup."

Sherlock bit his swollen lip. The blood tasted coppery, the delicate skin bruised. 

_Mirth?_

He called out to his dragon. He knew she was fine. If she wasn't, it would have been the first thing on his mind.  

_You are awake_ , she responded immediately. _I have been patient. You were asleep for so long_.

_But I was just that, asleep.  Are you ok?_ He asked gently. 

_I am fine._

There was something more. He could feel her tension. She was hiding it ever so well, not unlike her rider.

_What is it? he queried,_ ignoring Mycroft watching him. His brother would know the look. 

_Is John going to be all right?_  

Sherlock blinked. His dragon asking after another rider? Something he would never have expected of her. 

_I don't know_ , he responded, bowing his head.  

_Teranth has been keeping me updated, but it is not enough. Benth is beside himself. He is very sad, Sherlock. It is upsetting._ Her tone was calm, logical but no less tender. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and breathed, feeling the pain blossoming in his chest. Benth. He squeezed his eyes shut again and gritted his teeth. _I know. Tell him I am sorry._  

_He will not listen._ She said, _He will not eat. He barely drinks. He is not himself._  

Sherlock rubbed at his face, the IV tugging at the back of his hand.  

_Just ... just make sure he stays with you_. Sherlock said. _John is alive. He will make it._  

_We cannot speak with him. John is fading in and out. It is quiet in his head. It frightens Benth. It frightens me_. Sherlock paused. Nothing frightened Mirth. She was a stoic and headstrong as her rider, almost blinded by the logic and necessity of never being wrong. 

Sherlock heard the door click shut. Mycroft must have left. 

_It frightens me too_ , Sherlock whispered back.

 

-*-

 

It was another three days before the nurses would allow Sherlock to move beyond his room. He was irate and antagonistic, throwing deductions about like party favours. With every eyeroll from Mycroft, Sherlock simply added to his annoyance. He wanted out of his damn bed. Enough tests, enough bandages! He wanted to see John. He had to figure it out. He had to help.

And as many times as Mycroft reminded him about his lack of surgical and medical licensing, Sherlock was still adamant in exclaiming the uselessness of all hospital staff and their education.

He wasn't even allowed to see John! Bloody preposterous. 

He pretended that his legs didn't hurt when he strode from the room. He pretended to not care about his shoulder and his wrapped hand when he was caught sneaking into the Intensive Care ward, disguised as a doctor. He didn't even have a moment to feel proud of how far he could go before aother surgeon realized he didn't have the authority, nor even any correct ID on his person before being frogmarched out of ICU.

He ranted and raved for hours until _finally_ , the doctors gave in. They wanted him gone. To hell with his arrogance and aggressiveness. Then Lestrade had shown up and Sherlock had had to pull himself together.

Lestrade wanted a statement, a way to piece the whole mess together.

Sherlock, trying to piss Mycroft off, spouted on about the smuggling operation involving dragon eggs. He pulled together all the loose ends, tying up the case in a neat bow. He gave names of weyrs with pertinent affiliations with the group of armed robbers, basing his deductions on the soldiers and people with Moriarty. He claimed self-defence on all abuse handed out to the villains as well as exactly how many bodies _should_ be found in the hangars. In return, Sherlock got to grill Lestrade on everything else. Where had he been held? Who'd owned the hangars? How far apart had he and John really been? How had they gotten them out?

All of this helped in building the massive puzzle in Sherlock's head. Pieces were slotting into place. Grey areas were lighting up like lights, no longer flickering with unanswered questions.

There was only one thing that still bothered him, and that, he had to deal with immediately.

"I need to see Mirth and you're coming with me," Sherlock stood in the hospital caf, not caring one jot about whoever or whatever stood in his way. He hadn't left the hospital, of course. Not with John still out.

"I'm sorry, why?" Lestrade asked tiredly. 

Sherlock just glared at him as if to say, "Have you _seen_ my injuries? Do you _understand_ what's happening? Do you _want_ me to drag you upstairs myself?"

Lestrade hesistated before standing. "Yes, all right, your majesty. Lead on."

Mycroft had supplied Sherlock with a fresh set of clothing. A suit, dark shirt and fresh socks and shoes. Sherlock planned on burning them once he got home. 

The lift to the top of the hospital seemed to take forever. Sherlock was antsy. Lestrade looked more uncomfortable, especially since Mycroft had graced them with his annoying presence.

"You can bugger off, you know," Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft just sighed and looked to the ceiling. "Language."

"You know, you probably shouldn't be out of bed-" Lestrade said, eyeing the bandage on sherlock's right hand. Bruises seeped out and were immediately hidden by crisp white cuffs. 

"I should probably be dead too," Sherlock cut across him.

Lestrade frowned deeply, "Sherlock, your face is two shades from death as it is. Have you even looked in a mirror?"

Yes, he had. The pathetic baths he'd had to endure enlightened him to the state of his injuries. His lip wasn't swollen anymore, but the bruising on his cheek and eye socket would take a few more days to recede. The gash across his eyebrow was clean and stitched, neatly hidden by his dark brow. The rest, well, nobody could see them anymore, not under his suit.

The lift pinged and they exited on the top floor. Mycroft led them to the roof exit, properly outfitted for dragonriders, of course.

Sherlock ground his teeth as they walked up the stairs to the heavy roof door. Mycroft held it open and both Sherlock and Lestrade went through.

The wind was whistling noisily so high up.

Sherlock ignored the chill and strode on.

He couldn't have missed the dragons, all three of them.

Massive bronze Teranth was looking out over the city, keeping watch. Mirth was rising to her feet, eager to greet her rider. Sherlock had kept in touch with her, getting updates on her health and well-being. The sedatives had worn off and a veterinary surgeon (paid for by Mycroft, naturally) had visited her almost every day. They had been overly concerned about her clutch, but she was fine, her eggs were fine. Mycroft had insisted she be moved back to her weyr but Sherlock had dared him to make the gold do anything against her will. She would remain, come hell or high water. She was feeding better, Teranth bringing animals onto the roof for her to gnaw on. The stories of her colour, her demeanour, had been passed on via Mycroft, his disdain more than apparent. "A gold should not be lounging atop a hospital for weeks, sherlock! She is close to clutching. This is abominable. Unheard of!" Sherlock had snorted at that sentiment. The Holmes brothers had had one too many arguments already. For now, Sherlock was perfectly happy for Mycroft to waste more money on her, while he waited for John. 

Mirth came forward, her head nuzzling at Sherlock.

Lestrade stayed back, obviously unsure of the beasts. Sherlock ignored him. 

"My girl," Sherlock said softly, his hands immediately pressing to her jaw. 

_I have missed you_ , she said to him, happiness and elation seeping through her words. Sherlock was glad to finally touch her again, know that she was better. She snuffled over his neck and chest, reassuring herself of the well-being of her rider.

Her wings fluttered behind her and her tail swayed about.

Mycroft cleared his throat. 

Sherlock turned, only to see Lestrade's stricken face looking past Mirth.

"Whose is that?" the detective inspector whispered, awe etched in his tone.

Mirth twisted, making way for the men. Sherlock paused before moving forward. The sight before him made his heart drop. His gut felt hollow. Benth was laid out on the rooftop, his body dull, his limbs weak.

"He is not a 'that'," Sherlock said sharply, moving a little quicker. He bent down beside the great brown, hand floating over the dragon's face. "His name is Benth."

Upon hearing his name, the dragon whined, one eye opening. The one usually bright eye were dull and dark, immediately focusing on Sherlock. Benth whined deeper, his tail thrashing weakly behind him.  

_He has not moved_ , Mirth said softly. _He is exhausted._

"Benth," Sherlock repeated softly. "John-"

He had been about to say 'John will be fine,' but even the thought felt hollow, a lie. John was not okay. He was far from it. The army doctor had not awoken since his second surgery. The doctors mentioned how much strain it was on his body. The pain would be excruciating and his nerves would be shot. Initially Sherlock had assumed they were keeping him under, but alas, it wasn't so clear cut. Yes, his shoulder had been salvaged, and his wounds sewn up, but the mind had to come back too. John just hadn't woken up. His coma, the trauma ... it was too much just yet.

Looking now at Benth, Sherlock finally felt the weight and error of his actions. Initially, he'd just persisted with the idea that John would wake up any day. He was strong; he could manage Afghanistan, he could handle this. Sherlock had peppered the doctors with directives and thrown remedies at them, insisting they were useless, not that John was weak. Clearly John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was not _weak_. 

But seeing Benth ... it really did hit home. Sherlock had caused damage.

Benth was practically in mourning. Comas confused dragons. Having had more than enough experience with hospitals, Sherlock had gleaned information from Mirth on the matter. To a dragon, it was as if their rider was hovering on death, always. At least once a rider died, the dragon would know. They just would. But with something like severe sedation, dragons could not figure it out. All any dragon would know was that their rider was missing.

Sherlock gently pressed his palm to Benth's jaw. Benth could not feel John anywhere. His John, the only person Benth had known since hatching, was for all intents and purposes, gone.

It was only with Mirth's reassertions and care that Benth wasn't gone too. 

_He misses John_ , Mirth said inside Sherlock's head. _He_ only _wants John._  

Sherlock breathed deeply, shame welling up in his chest.

"Benth, this is my fault. I will, I will admit to that. I am sorry."

The brown just whined pitifully, his head lolling back, eyes closing. Sherlock glanced over the immense beast.

His skin was dull, pasty and his breathing was shallow. Too shallow. 

Mirth reiterated that she and Teranth had been coaxing him with food, but the brown was uninterested. He was losing mass. 

But Sherlock had questions. He needed answers.

"Benth, listen, I need to know how you and John found us. How? Mirth says she could not communicate with you. That we were too far away. What was it? What led you to me?"

"Sherlock, is this necessary?" Mycroft said softly.

The younger Holmes turned his gaze towards his brother. 

"Excuse me," Lestrade piped up before any words could spill out. He was abnormally polite. Intrigued, if his face was anything to go by.

"What?" Sherlock snapped. "Can't you see I'm-"

"What I see is you staring at, at, well, at someone's friggin' big brown. It is a brown, yes? Not too sure on the specifics. I mean, it took ten men to calm the thing down once we got to you lot. And thanks, by the way," he looked at Mycroft sharply, "For that terrifying bloody space-travel thing. You dragonriders. God."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He pointed to Mirth sharply. "Gold," he said, as if talking to a child. His finger moved. "Bronze," he pointed to Teranth. "Brown," he said, hand coming back to Benth's muzzle. "Arabian blue-crested, one of the rarest browns in the world. Count yourself lucky you even have the chance to be so close to a dragon such as this."

Mycroft cocked a brow at those words.

"All right," Lestrade hesistated. "So ... Where is its rider?"

Sherlock stared at Lestrade. Was the man really as thick as all this? Had Sherlock really, truly spent years around the buffoon?

"Just that," Lestrade shrugged, "Mighty odd of you to swan up to some random bloke-er-lady's dragon. Was it part of the smuggling ring? I'll need to put a name to a body, won't I?"

Mycroft sucked his own teeth. He looked at Sherlock. Well?

"As much as this pains me to tell you, Inspector, this is Benth, brown dragon to dragonrider John Watson. The very same John Watson lying comatose in a hospital bed below us, knocking at death's door. This brave beast is the only reason either of us is still alive. And for the last bloody time, he is not a 'that', nor an 'it', nor a 'thing'."

Lestrade's jaw seemed to hover between dropping and just flapping for a bit.

Sherlock wanted to _hit_ him.

The Inspector had never noticed that John was a dragonrider! How oblivious! How pathetically mundane! How could anyone miss the signs? John practically oozed 'dragonrider'. Which was odd, considering how very undragonrider-like he had first appeared to Sherlock. Certainly, his mannerisms were those of an untrained, weyrless rider, but still. 

Sherlock swallowed. God, he wanted John here. He would have loved to see this, see how little people expected of him. It would have made him angry. He might have had sharp words, or even his barking laugh at the ready. John knew what he was worth. He'd fought for his dignity, his expectations for himself higher than imaginable. 

"Blimey, sorry," Lestrade muttered. "Makes a lot more sense now." 

"Perhaps, Inspector," Mycroft cut in smoothly, "you will assist us in figuring out what led to such a, let's call it, a miscalculated mess?"

Lestrade frowned and pulled out his notepad. He flipped through his sheafs of paper. "I don't have anything aside from the rescue and the transport of all the animals and riders. The vet at the hangars had nothing to add. He folded the minute we found him hiding in the office of that place. Finnish, he was, by the way. Knew nothing of any value. He was being paid large sums of money to extract dragon eggs, help with, er, clutching."

"Let me talk to him," Sherlock demanded, standing up to his full six feet. 

"He's down at the station," Lestrade said, worry creasing his features. "But he really doesn't seem to know anything. Was scared to death of this Moriarty. Even after he saw what was left."

Sherlock snorted. "So scared, he took the money anyway."

"Doesn't it bother you that the bastard was going to cut your dragon open for her bloody eggs?" Lestrade was a tad incredulous.

Sherlock just eyed him. "It didn't happen." His gaze flicked to Mirth, who stood silently nearby.

"But it could have!"

"But it did _not_." Sherlock hissed. "There is absolutely no point in blithering on about what could or could not have happened in the past. What's done is done. It's John we should be-"

Sherlock stopped midsentence.

 

What?

 

He remembered something. Something vague that Mirth had mentioned.

When questioned, she had said that in her stupor, she only recalled waking to the sound of Benth talking to her. Benth and John had simply ... appeared. They must have gone between. But how? How could they have known? The distance had been far too great for any kind of dragon communication, adding to the fact that Mirth had been sedated for the entire time.

A niggling scratch itched its way across his brain.

Go between. To go, a rider needs ... a visual.  

Sherlock's stomach roiled, making him wince. He was sharply reminded of his entrapment. The lack of food and water had wreaked havoc on his system. 

He'd passed out a few times, hadn't he? 

In the hangar. 

Colour burst behind his eyes as the synapses fired, connecting, twining, lighting up hysterically fast.  

"Of course!" He hissed, eyes going wide. 

"Uh-" 

"Shut it, Lestrade. I need makeup. Get me foundation. Get me powder, for heaven's sake, do something useful for once!"

Lestrade just blinked wildly. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Sherlock, what are you-" Mycroft said sharply.

"The phone. The one found on John. Where is it?"

"In an evidence bag down at Scotland Yard of course. Couldn't trace the owner. Burner phone."

"Bring it to me, now," Sherlock snapped, hands flicking imperiously. He rushed past the two men, taking heed of nothing else. 

"Oi!" Lestrade bellowed after him. "Where are you off to? And why makeup? Sherlock! Sherlock!" 

But the detective was already gone, leaving the rooftop door to swing shut behind him.

 

-*-

 

Sherlock stood outside John's room for over an hour, waiting. He knew it was John's because he'd flirted rather quickly with a nurse earlier. She hadn't asked if he was family. Good.

Stepping into the quiet room, Sherlock had to gather himself.

"Sherlock."

Mycroft was right behind him. The older Holmes handed a black object to Sherlock.

The phone. Last time he'd seen it, it had been covered in John's blood. Sherlock swallowed thickly.

Lestrade had come through after all.

Not with the makeup, of course. No, Sherlock just pilfered a suitable woman's purse as she carelessly left it on the seat beside her in some waiting room.

Not the most perfect match, but startlingly good quality.

Mycroft's eyes flicked over Sherlock's face.

"You're going to do this, aren't you?"

Sherlock huffed and flicked the phone on. It hummed to life.

He was avoiding looking up.

"You've covered your injuries well enough. He may be foolish enough not to notice."

Sherlock looked up then. Away from his brother, across to the bed and machinery humming and bleeping away.

Under the cold white sheets lay John.

Sherlock stared and moved closer.

In repose, his flatmate looked unchanged, his shoulder and bandages hidden under the bedding. Someone had even taken care to comb John's greying hair, perfectly parted, barely touching his ears.

This was punishment indeed.

He flicked through the phone's photo album.

Nothing. Mycroft's team had already been through it, wiped it clear of any info apparently.

Sherlock blinked. But if there was no image, then how ...?

"Oh," he breathed, almost smiling. _Elegant_. Slipping the phone into his pocket. He then proceeded to pull at the bandages around his knuckles.

"Sherlock," Mycroft reprimanded.

"I cannot let him know, Mycroft."

"Your fingers are broken, healing." his brother retorted.

"And I cannot fit my hand into my glove with these bandages on, now can I? Honestly, sometimes I wonder if we really are related."

Mycroft just breathed in frustration.

Sherlock looked at John once more. "I will be back in an hour. Keep an eye on him."

"You do not need to do this, Sherlock. What's done is done."

"And if I don't, then nothing will ever be corrected. I know I've already done this, Mycroft. Whether I leave now, or ten years from now, I know it happens."

"How can you be sure?"

Sherlock just scowled. "How the hell do you think?"

Mycroft almost rolled his eyes. "You cannot just disappear again. Your gold is not suitably ready and your injuries-"

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock huffed, exiting the room in a flourish, his loose, forlorn bandages drifting onto the floor behind him.

-*-

 

On the rooftop, Sherlock made haste. He mounted Mirth quickly, not even pausing to check Benth lest he be drawn away. He had to go. Teranth made to stop them, rearing up boldly, wings wide.

_He says we are not to leave,_ Mirth said.  _You are not healed. It is dangerous. It is foolish._

Sherlock smirked at the great bronze, almost amused at his brother's feeble attempt to waylay him.

_And how many times has he told us that, my love?_ Sherlock answered with a grin.

Mirth flicked her head sharply, coyly. _More times than I could ever count in a lifetime_.

She rose onto her hind legs, flapped her wings once, bellowed a good-bye and blinked out of existence, taking Sherlock _between_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to make sure the ending didn't scare anyone, Mirth and Sherlock have not offed themselves! They're just ... going ... elsewhere. :)


	15. I will fix it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the last chapter, Sherlock had gone between after finding a very damaged John, unconscious in hospital.

Sherlock would never forget that place. The hangar. He and Mirth appeared in the dim, now empty space. It looked so different. He hopped down from Mirth's neck, shoes scraping against the fine grit dirt on the concrete. Boxes had been moved. He had to place everything back, back to the way it had been before. Sherlock scanned his mind palace, pulling up the hangar from his first appearance. He shoved pallets aside and realigned discarded debris. There was staining on the floor but with a clever angle he could easily cut it out. Seems Mycroft's men had done a fairly good job of removing most of the evidence. Even the dragon cage was gone, leaving dark, newly laid spots of concrete where the bolts would have been embedded. Mirth was undeterred as well, making Sherlock thankful once more for her logic, her ability to look beyond feelings and see only facts. Her shackles, her time in this place did not bother her. Even heavy with egg, his gold was beyond strong, beyond faithful to her rider. Sherlock pulled out the blackberry from the depths of his coat pocket. He took a few photos with the mobile. He needed to get enough of a swath, but not show the new details left behind.

He flipped through the images. No, not good enough. he recalled the exact positioning of the image he'd seen before. Stepping back and to the right, he raised the mobile again. Closer. Another step back. Mirth rumbled.

"Your shadow," Sherlock said. Mirth rumbled again and shifted, removing her bulky shadow from view. Sherlock snapped a few shots. These were better. Good enough for John. He may not have Sherlock's keen eye, but he would still need specifics. Sherlock clicked through the new set of photos. One was viable. Flippantly deleting the others, he nodded.

"Good. Let's go."

-*-

Baker Street was dark and silent. From his vantage point, Sherlock could see there were no pedestrians and no traffic at this hour. "Are you feeling all right?" He asked Mirth quietly. She crooned behind him, hidden in the shadows of a building. The great beast's bulk could barely fit between the brick façades.

 _I am good_ , Mirth responded.

Sherlock nodded, tugging at his suit jacket. He'd managed to get to his tailor before closing. Getting the timing right was wearing him out. _Between_ wasn't anything like normal travel. It required calculations, planning and a strong stomach. He'd changed outfits, naturally. New suit, new crisp white shirt, just the way he liked it. For some reason, Tomas hadn't taken him seriously when Sherlock demanded the other clothing be burnt. Honestly, as if Mycroft's tat was really going to outlast Sherlock's disgust. The tailor had also commented on Sherlock's hand. Yes, it was swollen and bruised, especially around the wrist. No, nobody would notice. Sherlock forgot sometimes that his tailor wasn't just _anybody_. Tomas had patiently shown Sherlock the new range of tattoo cover-up that had come into the store. After all, not all his clients were as ... clean-cut as Sherlock. This was why Sherlock paid for his services. Discretion, masterful skill and one foot in the underworld. Plus he loved Sherlock's coat. Good taste.

"I won't be long," Sherlock murmured, tugging at the new suit's cuffs. "Make sure to keep quiet. Benth cannot know-"

 _That we are here, yes, I realise. I am fully aware of the consequences, Sherlock. He will not sense me_.

Well, Mirth was definitely back to full charge if her attitude meant anything.

"Good," Sherlock said. He felt uneasy. Had to get this over with. His stomach roiled painfully. Going back in time always had its downsides. The double-effect of nausea and dizziness never helped. Sherlock knew now that his other self, the restrained Moriarty captive, was feeling this too. He couldn't dawdle much longer. Pushing himself any further would not work out well. He had to do this, and quickly.

Striding purposefully across the road, Sherlock shook himself.  
He looked up at 221B. Quiet, with only a dim light coming from the second storey window. John was in there. Sherlock took a deep breath and pulled out his kit.  
No keys meant he had to pick the lock. He needed the practice.  
He expertly dealt with the problem, hearing the lock tick positively. He twisted, wincing at the pull on his injured hand.  
He opened the door quietly. Taking care not to walk up the centre of the staircase, he was able to avoid the telltale creaks. It seemed an age before he was close enough to hear anything. Mrs Hudson would be asleep.  
He could hear John puttering. Always puttering.  
His flatmate was in the kitchen. Sherlock paused at the top of the stairs, the side entrance to the kitchen just before him, the bathroom and bedroom to his left both were dark. He had to be careful. Startling John could go one of two ways: A surprised gasp and fumble, or a bullet between the eyes. He leaned forward. John was rubbing a towel through his hair, his phone sitting on the kitchen table.  
He had obviously just showered and shaved, going by the scent of his usual shaving cream. No aftershave. John was stressed. Up at this hour, showering, shaving so early, making tea fully dressed. A daytime routine being carried out in the middle of the night. Stability being sought out; Ritual, purpose, a way to keep a frenetic mind on track, not allowing deviation of thought or purpose. Sherlock realized that he would have been missing for hours at this point. It hit him suddenly, this feeling. John had waited and waited for him, not knowing where Sherlock had gone. Because Sherlock had _lied_. He'd fibbed to keep John out of his business like a petulant child and now...  
Sherlock swallowed. John sighed. Sherlock moved forward into the kitchen, softly, quietly.  
But _damn_ , that fucking loose floorboard that butted against the doorframe.  
Sherlock froze. He didn't want to frighten John.  
John seemed to still, back to Sherlock. No one would think he'd noticed. no one would be the wiser. Fuck. Sherlock barely had a second to register the movement before John's favourite mug came hurtling at his head. His heart thumped heavily as the ceramic mug smashed noisily. That really had been the doctor's favourite mug.

"John, reflexes in order I see," Sherlock said, trying to not quirk a smile at the simple pleasure is seeing John responding defensively, like the wary soldier he was. Had been. His own voice felt dark, heavy with the strain of pretending nothing was wrong.  
John's dark blue eyes were wide, surprised. "What-" he began but Sherlock cut him off. He had to get this over with.

"No time. You must listen," Sherlock said sharply, trying to hurry it along. His stomach clenched and he knew he would feel faint shortly. He tugged at the mobile in his pocket. He clicked it on, flipping through the menu. John would need this. This exact image.

"You're okay. You-where've you been? Why didn't you call?" John was blabbering, eyes blinking, shocked. Sherlock couldn't dither.  
"John, I need you to look at this," Sherlock could have tossed the phone across the kitchen table, but he didn't want to. John. John was close, alive, breathing, blinking. Sherlock moved towards him, hand automatically grabbing for John's elbow. "Memorise this."

And typically, instead of just doing what Sherlock told him, John questioned him instead. "Wait, wait," John's eyes flicked all over Sherlock. He wouldn't be able to see the bruising, or from where he'd come. Sherlock hoped, at any rate. "What are you playing at?" John sounded frantic, his anger rising. "Your entire weyr is currently on-"  
Sherlock clenched his jaw. Damn the weyr. Damn them all. Look at this man. John. He was perfectly safe here, perfectly unaware of the danger ahead. Sherlock should leave, should let John carry on as he was. Let Sherlock die.  
But no, this was going to happen. John would go, eventually. If only time were so easy to manipulate. If only Sherlock could leave this be, but he knew it wasn't possible. This timeline was already ahead of them both.

John. John with his warm, careful wide eyes, his familiar jumper, his hair flattening, drying after his shower. Perfect John.  
Sherlock felt his heart beat like an engine, thundering faster and faster. He yanked John's arm, dragging the shorter man closer. John's face, unmarred, wide awake, full of life, full of caring and desire to see Sherlock safe. God, it was painfully beautiful.

He wanted this. So badly, it hurt. Only John. He bent his face, pulling John even closer. He had to.  
John's warm lips pressed to his own, opening with a gasp. It made Sherlock shiver, want to eat him up, steal him away and keep him safe somewhere else. No one could hurt John if Sherlock hid him.

Their tongues met and Sherlock breathed awkwardly, knowing full well that he would have to let go.

"Listen to me," Sherlock breathed, staring down at John, their breath mingling. _Please don't_ , he thought automatically, _don't listen to me at all. Do the opposite_. "You need this." John was glassy-eyed but he looked down at the phone being pushed at him.  
Sherlock had to go. If he didn't leave now he'd either stay and pass out from exertion, or he'd somehow screw this up. He pulled back, away from the only warmth he craved. He let go of John, the distance becoming more real by the second.

"Sherlock! Wait, what is-"  
Sherlock shivered at the sound as he left, dragging himself away from John, towards the stairs. John was going to figure this out and he'd come - go to save him, Sherlock. Goddamn soldier.

Sherlock turned for a second, remembering John had no idea where he was going. Could he tell him? Tell him about Moriarty? Give clues to the situation he would be stumbling into? His gut said yes, but in the end, Sherlock knew the result would be the same. He didn't influence anything at this point.

No. No, just go.  
"Put your jacket on before you go," he blurted as he leapt down the stairs two at a time.

Sherlock shot out of the house, dashing across the street, back to the shadows. He heard John yelling, hardly keeping pace.

Sherlock found Mirth where he'd left her. She crooned softly.  
"Hush," Sherlock gasped, breath catching in his throat. He leaned into her neck, pressing his face against her warmth.

 _You did well,_ Mirth consoled him.

"No, not really," Sherlock muttered, eyes closed tight, lips tight. "I did what I'd already done. There's no changing that."  
Mirth rumbled deeply, head lowering to rub at her rider.

-*-

The light was bright, unrelenting.  
John blinked slowly. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck. His mouth was dry, tongue clammy between his cheeks.

"God," he groaned, voice harsh against his own dry throat. He opened both eyes weakly.  
Fuck, everything hurt. John paused.

Benth.

Benth.

Sherlock.

_John!_

There it was, the voice in his head. _John, you're here. You're awake!_

"Oh my boy," John breathed. He shifted and felt a stabbing pain shoot up his arm and across his back. Jesus! shit, that hurt. What the hell?  _Benth, what the fuck is going-_

_He's dead. The killer is dead._

John could feel the heat, the pressure of Benth's thoughts. The anger.

Moriarty. The gun raised, trigger pulling. God, he'd been shot. Shot. John felt his lungs contract, face wincing.

 _Shit. Shit. Goddamn shit_.

"Calm," a clear voice made John startle. "Calm yourself. There is no point ot reason to confusion or distress at this point, Doctor Watson."

John shifted in the unfamiliar bed, eyes sucking in as much information as possible. He was in a hospital. He was hooked up, machines blipping and the pressure on the back of his hand was delicate and damn, it hurt.  
When his eyes met Mycroft's, John paused. He hadn't known what to expect, hadn't the faintest ... Harry, perhaps?   
"Mycroft," John tried to say, but nothing came out.  
"Calm," The familiar yet still imperious voice berated John. "Your throat is dry, you must rest, recover. There is absolutely no point in you worrying just yet. You've actually been resting for nigh on seventeen days. What's a little more then, hmm?"  
John glared.  
"Indeed," Mycroft countered. The tall man stood, twitching his immaculate suit jacket as he walked over to the visitor's seat and low table that sat near the door of John's room. Come to think of it, he had a room to himself, not sharing with a ward full of others. Oh God, what would that mean?  
A notepad and pen flumped onto John's thighs. Mycroft came to stand beside the bed. He pulled out the remote majiggy for the bed. The wotsit. Whatever it was called, John immediately recognized it. He limply grabbed at it and pressed.  
The bed's reclined back began to rise.  
"Better, I should think," Mycroft muttered, going back to his own seat.  
Once upright, John wriggled. Ow, his neck hurt. His shoulder ached deeply and he couldn't quite move his arm without shooting shafts of pain rocketed up from his wrist, through his elbow and up to his heavily bandaged, immobile shoulder.  
John grabbed for the pen and winced.

Damn. No good.  
  
He used his right hand this time, grabbing for the simple tool. He scowled at Mycroft as he dragged the notepad closer.  
"Oh, I expect your handwriting won't suffer much. Perhaps you'll discover your deeply hidden calligraphic genius?"  
John opened his mouth and swore, the invective silent, yet not lost on the Holmes who simply raised one brow. "My."

  
John scratched the pen across the paper and flipped the pad up for Mycroft to read.  
"You are at St. Bart's Hospital."  
John scribbled something else.  
"What does that-oh, I see. Your shoulder. Scapula shattered completely. Quite a mess, really. You are quite fortunate, mind, to have had an excellent team of England's finest surgeons put you back together. First ever use of a perfectly 3D-printed organic scapula, printed and crafted to fit your frame, matching your right one perfectly. The operation was a success and you should heal much faster than if the bones had merely been refused, or mashed, whatever it is your doctors do these days."  
John just stared.  
What? His ... His entire shoulder blade? Gone? Had Sherlock helped?  
"Replaced in full," Mycroft said, as if reading John.  
What the hell?  
"Reproduction of limbs has come a long way, I must say," Mycroft murmured calmly. "Unbelievable what the world of medicine has to offer. On one had, we develop strains of heroin strong enough to explode a heart and on the other, human livers grown from a cell alone. It's almost magic."

Mycroft said this with not an ounce of wonder in his voice. He was cold, hard and his message got through.  
Yes, John understood. Mycroft had pulled strings, done ... something to ensure John got the best breakthrough treatment possible.  
John wrote something new.  
He held up the pad carefully.

Mycroft read the one word. His gaze flicked up to John.  
"I do not know where he is," Mycroft said finally.  
John blinked.

  
But... then where was he? 

  
"Do you know, John, how difficult it was to have a brother like mine? You have a sister, Harriet, yes? Was she a holy terror?"  
John just stared back, confused.  
  
"Because that is exactly what Sherlock was. A holy terror. A child born with a mania like no other. Oh, how he frustrated my father. The two never did get along. Even at Father's funeral Sherlock couldn't be bothered to show up."  
Mycroft sighed.  
  
"Our mother loved Sherlock more than anything, however. Perhaps were it not for her, no one would have seen what he had. No one would have believed him or his abilities. And then he found Mirth. Oh, how it all got away from him. Finally, a dragon of his own! A gold no less, how could anyone assume otherwise? John, had you seen Sherlock before Mirth you might have thought him a bit odd, a bit cold, but he was nothing compared to life after Mirth. Finally, the idiot boy had someone who thought like him, believed in everything he said and did, followed him and allowed him the recklessness that has thrust him into more harm than any other being alive. He put his gold in danger at every possible opportunity. Do you know, when he was thirteen, he snuck into the weyr late. Naturally, he was caught, yet nothing seemed to be wrong. it wasn't until breakfast the next morning that I noticed the scar on his elbow. a scar he hadn't had the day before."

Here, Mycroft took a breath.  
  
"My idiot brother may be the smartest, brightest dragonrider alive, but he can be such a fool. Such a terrible fool."  
John's head felt heavy. Sherlock. Where was he?  
He wrote the question out.  
"Where?" Mycroft sighed. "I believe he went _between_ , to fix ... things. For the first time in his life, I think my baby brother has felt remorse for his trouble. Protected as he was, he never saw the forest for the trees."  
John frowned.  
"My dear boy, don't look so confused. Don't tell me it hasn't occurred to you that without Sherlock's idiocy, you wouldn't be lying here half shot to pieces?"  
John blinked. No, well. It wasn't like this was Sherlock's doing. That would be ridiculous. John was a grown man, with choices, decisions he made himself.  
Sherlock hadn't shot him!  
  
Mycroft gave a sharp laugh. It was unsettling.  
John eyed the man uncertainly.  
  
"Oh, Doctor, you surprise us all. Sherlock Holmes, for the first time in his life, has put someone else before himself. I would like to think it wasn't for his own happiness in the end, but I believe I would be wrong to assume so."  
  
John tilted his head, voice croaking in his throat.  
"He's gone to fix things. He has been gone for over a week. I have no idea if he will return, or if indeed he _can_."  
John's eyes widened. Sherlock was gone? Between? To when? Where? For what?  
That just wasn't fair! How dare he bugger off! How dare he prance about, leaving John to mend like an old fool in hospital. Why hadn't he returned yet? Had he fucked up between? Was Mirth not in good health? What if they couldn't come back?

What if-

_John._

Benth's voice burst into his mind.

You have to come see me. You have to come visit. They are back. Mirth and Sherlock have returned from _between_.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> God, I'm awful, such a delay like this. Apologies all round. But here it is! Chapter (gasp!) fifteen.
> 
> Thank you all for the kudos and comments. they have helped immensely. Don't forget to visit me on tumblr: http://nejineee.tumblr.com


	16. Twenty-eight months ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's go back. Twenty-eight months ago.

It was hot and dry and, God, cramped.

John had been waiting for these supplies for weeks. He and the other medics were unpacking everything as fast as possible. The delivery guys were bitching about needing to take the truck back to town. _Only one vehicle, boys, make it happen, make it happen_.

John shook his head as he heaved a plastic box off the growing pile and carried it down the medic centre hallway. He and the other three medics were melting in the Afghani heat. Two of the soldiers outside had stripped off half their uniforms. Normally not cool, but with no captains within earshot, who could blame 'em? They always overlooked John's status, the boys. He was Doctor Watson to the Americans. The one man busting his balls to save not just his own troops, but the stray American troops that traipsed in every so often.

"Only one more, Sir," Evan huffed, struggling with his own box of supplies.  
  
"Right. Tell them they can have their precious vehicle back, then," John muttered, dropping his box in the storage facility. The medic centre wasn't permanent, more of a resting spot for the field hospital, but goddamn was it lacking in anything like air conditioning.  
  
At least with the supplies here, it wasn't too long of a walk to the hospital. They could space out delivieries over the next week-  
  
"Sir!"  
  
John looked up, wiping his brow as Reggie, one of the American boys, came running into the hallway. "Corporal," John said, standing straight.  
  
"Sir, sorry, emergency. Chopper's landing. News from Heding. Three men down, one critical. They want you up and out."  
  
"Right," John nodded at Evan, "Let the hospital know. Prep beds, get over there with Harrison."  
  
"Yes, Sir!" Evan snapped to attention.  
  
John turned and sprinted after Reggie as the American headed out. God, the damn choppers. John grabbed his kit, heaved it over his shoulder. He ran after the soldiers ahead as a filthy black helicopter rotated, shifted before settling noisily on the only available area behind the tiny medical building. Sand and grit flew everywhere, got into everything. John winced as sharp shards cut at his eyes, got into his mouth.

The soldiers were yelling orders, a trio of men hopped out of the chopper, one being carried around the shoulders. John snapped his fingers over his shoulder, knowing Evan was not far behind. "Get him checked!"  
  
"Bullet to the leg!" One of the soldiers yelled over the noise of the rotors. "Clean through, Doc! We left five back with three injured! One definitely needs you."  
  
"Where's Malcolm?" John yelled, eyes squinting against the horrifying noise and sand.  
  
"Other chopper's gone to get her. Field hospital's got a fuckload of injured coming in from the east!"  
  
"Damnit, okay. Let's go!" John leapt up, clambering into the helicopter about as gracefully as a newborn flamingo.  
  
He turned and saw Evan checking the injured soldier over. Good man.  
  
"Captain!" John blinked and covered his eyes from the blistering sunlight cresting over the trees. He almost fell back as something hurtled towards him. He managed to stop it smashing into his face just as the chopper hefted upwards.  
He flipped the round object in his hands.  
  
"Helmets on, Doctor," the soldier who helped him up said. John's brow furrowed deeply.  
  
"Right." He muttered and snapped his helmet on.

\---

The small group of soldiers had apparently been making their rounds just on the outskirts of the small town they were patrolling. Not the most dangerous sector to be caught in, but whoever said criminals were overly selective? Smugglers and kidnappers had been making the rounds over the past eighteen months. Kids were disappearing, parents, grandparents getting shot to bits. It was getting worse. John had been present at a handful of surgeries. He'd only just mended the shoulder of an Afghani woman that had almost been blown off by freaking shrapnel.

The brigade had heard enough about the smugglers to guess at their intentions. If they were smuggling high-priced shit out of the Middle East, more likely than not it had to do with the egg cartels.  
For every dragon egg that was being moved out of the country, another rider had to be supplied in compensation to suppliers.  
In this particular part of the world it wasn't unheard of to trade a child in for a life as a dragonrider in exchange for money. The very, very few weyrs apparently were lacking in pure dragon bloodlines. Start young, get a kid with resilience and maybe hand over one defective egg or two and the weyr might make it. These were not good times for some weyrs. In a world that no longer bowed to anyone on dragonback, the ancient, traditional weyrs could not sustain themselves. Weyrs were split, small, starving. The rest were wealthy, overbearing and not unfamiliar with using force in the small towns filled with non-dragonriding folk. Racism ran deep in these weyrs. Deep seated traditions separated those of pure bloodlines and those without any blood connection at all. The weyrs did not produce their own food, did not maintain their own crops. They bullied and pushed the locals to supply them with fruits, meat, anything. The weyrs had not adapted. This was partly why the British Army had appeared, almost eight years ago, making efforts to control the violence.  
  
It was not going down well. Yeah, the dragons themselves were never to be seen in these areas. Far too arid a region for any to stay very long. But the cartels had plans. They didn't need dragons in a warzone to incite fear. And _this_ is where it got John. It was guns, bombs, knives, petrol, God, _anything_ that was used against anyone who tried to stem the violence.  
  
He never even saw a dragon, not once in all his years in these parts. It was patients with missing limbs, blown off heads and eviscerations he had to work with. Man-made murder on a massive scale.  
Once the Americans had shown up, the conflicts hadn't gotten any easier.  
They had been sent in to recover. Reconnaisance troops for not just fighting, but salvaging, stopping the transport flow.  
John could count on his hand how many Americans he'd had to stitch up because they'd been digging for information in the wrong place.  
  
The damn eggs. It was always something petty like eggs.  
  
All this murder and mayhem for the world's most precious element.  
John couldn't believe it some days.

Even now, as the chopper descended after a short trip over the arid lanscape, he could see the outcome of such unsalvageable efforts.

Three men were laid out in the dirt, two soldiers keeping watch. They were on alert. John's heart thudded. He had to get the wounded up and out. This was not a safe zone.  
"Snipers just over the rise!" The captain beside him yelled. "No shots since, but we're not messing about! In. Out!"  
  
John nodded. "Help me with the stretcher."  
  
The chopper hovered as the two men jumped out. John could feel the heat searing through his boots. God, just the weather alone could kill a man.  
"Doc!"  
  
John blinked as he hustled over, stretcher in his right hand, the other captain holding the farther end.  
  
"Jamie?" John blinked. "Bloody hell, mate!"

"Long time! Typical, the Brits send their best but we only got me!"  
  
John settled on his knees beside the closest injured soldier. "Shot?"  
  
"In the back," Jamie could finally stop yelling as the chopper moved away. It would land nearby, but at least they'd be able to assess the situation better.  
  
"We think the snipers have vamoosed, Doctor," the nearest American soldier said, not moving from his post.  
  
Good. That would ease John's mind.  
  
Shit. All three wounded were British.  
  
"What happened?" He asked Jamie as he pulled out supplies from his medic pack.  
  
"Ambush. We found 'em like this. Heard the shots, you know?"  
  
"Ambush?" John frowned. That made no sense. Who would ambush a small party way out here? They were either patrolling or relaxing for a minute.  
  
"Easton says they came upon a bunch of guys. The guys started fired, like, just outta nowhere."  
  
"Mm-hm," John sighed as he found nothing too seriously wrong with the second soldier. This one was awake, but bleary.  
  
"Vitals good. What happened with this one?"  
  
The man at the end was out, his dark skin marred by a massive gouge in his cheek, dirt embedded in his skin.  
"Buckshot."  
  
John paused. "Excuse me?"  
  
Jamie shrugged, "You heard me."  
  
"Jesus Christ," John breathed, tending to the man. His breathing was messy at best. "Call the chopper in. This one goes on the stretcher, the other two can be carried.  
The standing soldier nearest made the appropriate signals. Buckshot, shrapnel fire. Bloody slapdash weaponry. What next? Sawn-off shotguns? This the bloody wild west?  
These were not soldiers retaliating. These were locals, for sure. Not trained fighters. Snipers, yeah, right.  
  
John glanced up, annoyed once more by the mess of a nearby chopper. Wait, it was a different helicopter.  
  
"Thank God," he muttered when he saw Harrison.  
  
After hefting the injured men up into the chopper, John agreed to wait. He'd stay back for the other helicopter which would be winging back soon enough. Harrison could handle the injured and there was no room in that helicopter for two extras.  
  
As the chopper lifted, its ridiculous blades whipping, the air buzzing with noise and debris, John figured this had been better than he'd expected.  
  
He patted his gear. All in place. Buckles done, snaps closed. Helmet. Check.  
  
In the barrage of noise and sand, he heard a yell. Spinning, John saw Jamie stumble.  
  
"Jamie! You all right, mate?" He yelled, voice barely heard over the fucking drone. "Jamie?"  
  
A pinging sound made John spin again. He ducked.  
  
"Shit!" Bullets were smacking off the metal of the helicopter. Someone yelled. John couldn't make it out. A soldier fell from the helicopter. Blood sprayed the dirt. Arterial spray. The noise and dust was beyond confusing.  
  
"No! Go go go!" He waved frantically at the soldiers in the chopper. "Get them out of here!" God forbid the fucking chopper gets taken down.  
  
John ran towards Jamie, his back to his only means of escape. They were being shot at.  
  
"Jamie!" He yelled, almost falling over his friend's body. bullets rained around them. The soldiers in the chopper were firing back. They had to go, had to get the injured out.  
  
As the roar of the helicopter hollowed out, John's heart stopped.  
  
Jamie's wide, pale blue eyes stared up at the sky, unseeing. John leaned in even as more gunfire blew over his head. "Shit! Jamie!" Blood covered John's fingers. The bullet had clipped Jamie just under his jaw, shearing through his windpipe, tearing his throat wide open. God.  
  
"Damnit!" John yelled, looking about frantically.  
  
What had instigated-  
  
There! Men! A dirty busted Jeep sat on the east slope. Had it been there all along? No. Couldn't.  
  
Why the fuck had they come back? Why kill standing soldiers? Jesus!  
  
John threw up his hands.  
  
"Don't shoot! I'm a Doctor!"  
  
Goddamn like that would help! Standard fucking procedure, but these arseholes wouldn't care.  
  
Two guys had jumped down from the car and John tried to breathe evenly. Stay a fair distance away if you're a duo, huh? Just far enough away for a hasty exit if necessary.  
He carefully went for his gun.  
  
"Damnit, Jamie. What's going on?" John whispered, heart thundering. Jamie gave no response.  
  
John's throat clenched, drowning his anguish. Jamie was a good medic and a fantastic doctor. One of the few who seemed to not mind working with irascible John. A young man, not barely over thirty. A good man. A damn ... kind soldier.  
  
"Hands in the air!" A gruff, deep voice hollered.  
  
John stayed where he was, gun hidden beneath him as he leaned over Jamie's prone body.  
  
"I will shoot you, Doctor or no," the deep voice repeated.  
  
English. Definitely not native. John grit his teeth. Fucking bastards.  
  
He looked up at the two men that had just stopped in front of him with assault rifles. Both muzzles were aimed at John's head.  
  
"Don't shoot," John growled.  
  
"Hands in the air, then, Doctor."  
  
Both men had medical masks covering their faces. Their dark clothing was nondescript, unkempt but not too filthy to be mistaken for locals of the poor unfortunate town nearby. The one who spoke had a slight Yokrshire lilt to his vowels.  
  
British. Fuck.  
  
John breathed deep, trying to calm himself. The recon team would be back soon. All he had to do was survive until then.  
"Who leaves two Doctors behind, huh?" The other man, the short one, nudged at Jamie's insignia. "American."  
  
"Barbarians, the lot of 'em," the tall one grunted. "Little soldiers with no concept of rules outside this shit life."

John scowled.  
  
"Gun. On the ground."  
  
John considered his next move.  
  
"Don't even think it, lad. Gun. Ground. Now."  
  
John lowered his weapon to the dirt.  
"Bag. Toss it over here."  
  
John unhooked his medic pack and threw it to them. They moved quickly, obviously aware that more soldiers were on their way. The two tore into his pack, scattering supplies everywhere.  
  
"Not here," the short one grunted, looking about. "D'you think they got it?"  
"Better not have," the tall one grumbled, clearly agitated. He came close suddenly and yanked John to his feet by his arm.  
  
"Where is it?" The man hissed, foul breath making John gasp. He was stronger than he looked.  
  
"What?" John hissed back.  
  
"He doesn't know," the short one snapped. "Come on, we have to get out of here. They're coming back!"  
  
"Shoot him, then," the tall one snapped, shoving John back so that he stumbled and fell over Jamie's body.  
  
John winced.  
  
"I'm not shooting him! You fucking do it!"  
  
"Fine," the tall one sighed and raised his gun.  
  
 **BAM!**  
  
John's aim was bloody perfect, clipping the tall one's hand where it was pressed to his massive weapon. The man howled as the bullet tore through his tendons and bones. No trigger finger, no firing.  
  
John rolled backwards as the other man retaliated with a wild yell.  
  
"You little fuck! The fuck!" Bullets sprayed and John leapt to the side as best he could from a low crouch. Not a soldier, this one. No idea on aiming precision.  
John twisted and fired. The man yowled and grabbed at his shoulder.  
  
"I will not hesitate to kill," John said loudly, calmly. "Doctor or no."  
  
"Fuck!" The tall one ran at him, gun arm swinging.  
  
John ducked as the assault rifle went flying at him, bouncing off his helmet, juddering his neck.  
  
"Ow," John hissed and shot the man, close-range.  
  
The man toppled, hands going to his gut.  
  
A bullet singed past John's left ear. He fell back. Holy fuck!  
  
"Get up!" The short guy screamed.  
  
John stood. Shit. The guy had a handgun. Ambidextrous, he seemed.  
  
"You little fucking shit! Now I have to- God-"  
  
The man's mask had slipped, exposing more of his pale face. He pulled the trigger. John worked on instinct he just twisted and fired.  
  
 _Whap!  
_  
John stumbled with a yell as his vision burst. Fuck. His nose. The bloody idiot had lobbed his gun at John. Thrown his stupid fucking weapon! Oh God, John had to get out of this.  
  
John had dropped his gun in shock. He fell to his knees but immedaitely scrambled up, almost blinded by the searing throbbing bursting through his skull. His hand went up automatically. Blood streamed over his lips.  
  
"Just-just let me go," he muttered.  
  
No response.  
  
Blinking, John wavered. What on earth?  
  
He could have laughed but it just felt wrong. The stupid fucker was _running away_. That was his tactic? Mangle John's face with his handgun to distract him and then flee?  
Fine.  
Whatever.  
God. He was dizzy.  
  
And then averything went black.

\---

Thirsty. John was thirsty.  
And Hot. Too hot.  
He coughed, spitting. Spitting what?  
He rolled over. Blue sky. Not a cloud.  
He was outside.  
He was alive. Oh thank merciful Zeus. Or whoever.  
  
His tongue was rough and thick and his face hurt like hell.  
John rolled over. Sand. Everywhere. Dirt, litter, crap.  
He scrambled to his feet. Shit.  
Shit!  
He was in the middle of fucking nowhere.  
  
No. Wait. He could see a hill.  
He ran towards it, head slamming.  
  
Shit shit shit.  
He scrambled over the hill covered in scruffy grass.  
Yes! This was ... This was where the soldiers had been! The, the bodies. The recon team. Where... where were they?  
  
John spun about. There wasn't a soul in sight. He glanced up at the sky.  
  
Holy fuck. Almost 4pm. He'd been ... what? Out? He patted himself down. Only then did he realise that he was lacking a lot more than just a helicopter.  
His flak jacket was gone, his helmet. Hell, his fucking boots!  
  
"No, damnit!"  
  
He scraped both hands through his hair, now overly-aware of his lack of not just saviours or comrades, but water and food.  
He had to move.  
  
The nearby town was ... West? No. East? Shit. John started to run. Fuck fuck fuck. The recon mjst have come back for them. Seeing him gone and another dead man alongside Jamie, they'd figure John had been taken.  
  
Dismal search would have overlooked his earlier position.  
  
"Utter, shitting, piss-head arseholes!" He yelled hoarsely. The gunmen must have had backup. They fucking dragged John into the bloody wilderness.  
  
His feet were already burning. This was not marathon terrain. Rocks and spiny foliage already scraped at his progressively dirtier socks.  
  
"Oh shit," John huffed, coming to a stop, chest heaving.  
  
He leaned on his knees, breath dry and painful. He'd been lying in the bleaching sun.  
  
His lips cracked as he winced. And his skin felt like it was on fire.  
  
He looked at his hands. His palms hurt like hell. Must had been lying face up.  
  
He gently tapped at his nose and winced. He could taste the dried blood. His nose would need setting and his skin was clearly burnt.  
Well, this was going to be unpleasant.  
  
He stood up and breathed slower. In the distance, a town shimmered.  
  
Good. He, he could do this.  
He'd, well, survived...something.  
  
Just over this ridge. Then over that rise. Yeah.  
John paused. He just stopped thinking for a second.  
  
Those bastards. Broke his nose, killed his comrades ... killed Jamie.  
John wiped at his face. He was accustomed to seeing dead soldiers, dead civilians. Hell he was lucky to save over half his patients if he could. This was what he did. He chose this.  
  
He was lucky to be alive.  
  
He lowered his hands and breathed. He had to move. Exhaustion and dehydration would set in soon.  
  
Something moved.  
John startled. He looked to his left. No one there.  
Great, now hallucinations.

But wait...  
Something shimmered. John frowned. Here, in the middle of nowhere, something shone.  
John moved forward. Just another nondescript pile of dirt. Searingly hot, as always. John's feet were numb.  
Movement.  
Sand shifted and slid suddenly off a mound.  
A large rock ... rolled ... out.  
  
John blinked. _Wow. A rock. Great._  
  
He moved forward carefully. It was ... a pretty rock, though.  
  
Oval in shape and rough, almost ugly in its beauty. It looked heavy. John crouched down, fascinated. He tried to pick it up. Crap, it was heavier than it looked. It would take two men to lift it.  
  
He shifted on his haunches, curious.  
It was hot, and surprisingly perfect in its dimensions. He definitely needed both hands to turn it over.  
  
It had rough extrusions all over, like rock formations, but red ... and blue?  
Suddenly it jumped against his hands and John yelped.  
He jumped and scooted back. It made an ominous crack against the ground and came to a halt.  
John's heart was jumping through his chest. What the fuck?  
  
What kind of rock could jump? It, yes, it was moving, wobbling. John's eyes were wide, mouth slack.  
  
No...  
  
What could drive men to murder? What would make gunmen shoot randomly? What would make them come back?  
Smugglers. They must be smugglers. He'd just come face-to-face with some of the criminals responsible for the fractious fighting going on.  
And what did smugglers smuggle? What would the greedy sons of bitches kill for? What would drive them to murder a medic?  
  
John gulped, breath trapped. The rock cracked loudly. A sound emanated from within; a keening croak.  
  
John dared not look away. The sun beat down on him and his entire face needed medical attention, but John would not move.  
  
"Oh." He breathed as more shell shattered. Because that was what it was. Shell. Eggshell.  
  
A limb broke free. The animal wailed. A wing poked through the membrane. A keen broke out and the little creature pushed its head free. It's overly-large head which was attached to a slim, long neck, winding, curled body and clawed feet. John could barely breathe.  
He dared not move. He knew absolutely fuck-all about stuff like this. Was he in danger? Should he step back?  
  
The creature struggled for a moment within the egg's remaining membrane. It rolled, rocked and eventually shifted onto it's feet. The creature cried out, head weaving about, teeth sharp and new. John should have been afraid. He should have known by the glint of those fangs that this creature could do him some serious harm. But he didn't move. All he could focus on was the voice in his head, the unfamiliar, yet beautiful sound of someone connecting, talking, whispering with him.  
  
 _Benth._  
  
"Benth?" John breathed, confused.  
  
 _I am Benth.  
_  
The dragon, because that is what it was, what it could only be, shook itself and raised its damp wings. Large opalescent eyes looked directly at John, head level with him where he crouched, motionless.  
  
"Hello, Benth," John breathed. He felt a swelling, a warmth blossoming in his chest. He couldn't look away. This Benth, he was beautiful. He. Male. How did...?  
  
 _I am Benth,_ the dragon repeated, cawing. It stumbled forward, awkward, inelegant in its infancy. John just stared, awed by its beauty, his beauty. Benth. A _dragon_.  
  
 _Your dragon_ , the little one responded in his head. _You and me. You are mine._  
  
"John."  
  
The dragon tilted his head like a terrier. Quizzical.  
  
"My name is John. Captain John Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." God only knows why he needed to proclaim his full title. At a moment like this, John just felt weak, untethered, brittle in his weak human form. He was alive. He'd stumbled on a dragon. His hands and face were covered in his own and his comrade's dry blood. His world was upside-down. If he'd been any worse with his luck, they'd be writing to his sister, telling her to make arrangements. But this ... this changed _everything._  
  
 _Hello John wassin fith bumbaleers. I am Benth. And I am hungry_.

  
John smiled, feeling the warmth spread throughout his body. He felt fulfilled. He felt ... enamoured. He'd been waiting all his life for this, at least, that's what it felt like. All these decades on this earth, with or without companionship, John had been incomplete. He'd been hollow and lost and unloved. He'd been waiting ... for Benth.

\---

 

"We thought you'd been killed, or worse," Harrison said worriedly, helping John with his nose bandages. "How on earth do you manage to survive an attack and somehow come back with a - a , well, one of those _things_ , Watson? How?"

 

Returning to the Field Hospital seemed a miracle to the others. Returning alive even more miraculous. Returning with a freaking dragon? Well, John really didn't have any words for how that must have seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you all for the reviews/kudos and to those kinds folks keeping me sane on Tumblr. Here's what we've got so far for the boys. :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John, reunited.

_Sherlock,_ Mirth murmured inside the man’s head. _Look._

The two of them had just appeared in the sky, the hospital roof below. Sherlock held on as Mirth gently lowered herself, great mass shifting under those immense wings. She was perfection, even full of eggs.

Sherlock glanced downwards, feeling the release of tension in his shoulders. They were back.

He blinked and frowned. There was Teranth, vigilant as always. That meant Mycroft was still hanging about. How annoying. And there was the dark mass of Benth. But Benth was up, moving. His large brown head was looking up at them, wings fluttering weakly. He seemed … eager?

Sherlock’s heart gave a leap. “John,” he said breathlessly. “Is he-?”

Mirth’s glee spread through him as she landed. That was enough for Sherlock, as he slid off her neck haphazardly, feet landing heavily on the rooftop.

Benth was there, crooning, happy to see his mate and her rider.

He was still sickly-looking, perhaps even mores than last Sherlock had seen him. 

“Damnit,” Sherlock hissed, watching Mirth nuzzle at Benth’s muzzle. “We have missed time.”

How late were they? Benth’s skin was still dull. He also was much thinner.

 _Teranth has been feeding him and providing water when possible._ Mirth supplied. _Benth is happy now._

She looked down at her rider, wide, beautiful eyes saying more. Sherlock understood. 

Benth came closer, his giant head nudging Sherlock’s chest.

_He wants you to see John. John is awake. He wants you to help John get better. Also, John is in a bad mood. Be wary._

 

Sherlock cocked a brow at her. Really?

 

_I would suggest you hurry._

 

—-*—-

 

“And you tell him if he hasn’t got his great fat arse down here soon, I’m going to really lose it,” John  wanted to mutter, but his voice just wasn’t ready.

Mirth was a coalescing warmth in his head. Always the calm one, that girl.

 

She flashed a few images across John’s eyes, explaining where they had been.

 

John swallowed, vaguely aware that Mycroft was watching him.

 

Sherlock had gone to see him. Days ago, that encounter, that … moment, had been Sherlock from now. John felt uneasy, yet exhilarated at the thought. It kind of confused him, this time-travel business, and it really was bloody unsafe, but _still_.

 

Sherlock was a bloody fool.

What possessed him to even think of doing such a thing? Doing what he did would hardly save John now. What if Sherlock had come back and John hadn’t awoken? It seemed mostly pointless. Going back wouldn’t affect John _now._

 

 _Sherlock does not think_ , Mirth supplied, seeing his open thoughts.

 

John snorted. That was amusing to hear about the one man who thought too much.

 

 _He’s ridiculous_ , John countered. _And idiotic._

 

 _He was terrified._ Mirth said calmly. _He did not want you to die. He felt responsible and he released quickly that he had already gone back, John. Neither of us would want you to die. You are too precious to us, John. To Benth._

 

John swallowed deeply, uncomfortable with such an admission.

 

 _I am not anything special, sweetheart,_ John said.

 

 _I believe that is wholly untrue,_ Mirth countered, confidence and calm settled into her tone. 

 

 _You are my special thing_ , Benth piped up, joining in. _My John. My John._

 

John felt a painful heat wash over him. Oh, poor Benth. The dragon had been suffering deeply with John in a coma. And still John could not see him. He ached to be with his dragon, wanted to feel his warm skin, his great shadow around John.

 

 _You’d better go eat,_ John said softly. _Go with Mirth. Get fed, Benth._

 

 _I do not want to leave you,_ Benth answered. _What if you go away again?_

 

John looked up, feeling Mycroft eyeing him. _Fine, then let them bring you food. Mirth and … uh-_

 

_Teranth._

 

Right. Yes. Sure.

 

Mycroft’s dragon, obviously. John still had difficulty with that immense bronze beast being the dragon of Sherlock’s brother. Now he had a name to match.

 

 _I will feed them both,_ a dark, deep voice entered John’s mind. Holy shit. This talking to every dragon-ever business was a bit of a strain sometimes. 

 

 _Uh, thanks,_ John answered.

 

_Mirth is my queen. She must eat if her eggs are survive her gallivanting. Benth, I will bring him something as well._

 

Well. Definitely the father-figure, if John was to label the other dragon. He could feel the edge of over-protectiveness when Teranth spoke of Mirth. 

John could only imagine what it must be like to have not only a wayward rider such a Sherlock in a weyr, but to also have a rather saucy, rule-breaking gold as well. Poor chap.

 

Mycroft had turned, his gaze moving towards the door.

John looked up. His breath caught in his throat. He’d been chatting to dragons like he wasn’t strapped to a bed with barely any ability to move of speak.

 

Sherlock opened the door quietly, warily, eyes flicking around the room before settling heavily on John.

 

“I will leave you a moment,” Mycroft sighed, clearly feeling the burn between the other two men.

 

John wanted to say something snarky, but his throat scratched painfully and his shoulder twinged, making him wince.

God, that hurt.

Sherlock moved, beside the bed in an instant.

“John,” he whispered, pale blue eyes wide, open to John. 

He could see into those depths, those transparent, unclouded eyes. What John saw there made him swallow painfully. 

“I…” Sherlock said, lowering himself so as to not loom. “I am so sorry,” he whispered. 

John blinked back the pain in his eyes. God, he was so not going to cry. He felt pathetic and weak and _damaged_ , moreso than ever before, but still… he felt whole. _I am alive._

He lifted his left arm, pressing the backs of his fingers to Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock’s large hand joined those fingers, gripping John’s hand tight.

“Mirth says you cannot speak,” Sherlock uttered, crestfallen, it seemed, to not hear John’s voice.

_Tell him I have a backlog of swearing to get through._

Sherlock blinked as the message was passed on via Mirth. He tried to not smile.

“At least our dragons can pass messages,” Sherlock said softly, pressing John’s fingers to his lips. 

 _Tell him I am not angry,_ John said. _At least, not right now. I can probably ramp it up later._

Sherlock’s lips pursed. “You very well should be. If it were not for my behaviour, my absolute disregard for the safety of myself and others, you would not be shot to pieces.”

He sounded like Mycroft.

John frowned, trying to shift in the bed.

 _He has a lot more to say,_ Mirth said. _But is waiting for you to be strong enough._

John frowned. 

_Strong enough for what?_

_Strong enough to hit him, should you feel the need to do so._

John smiled, pain lancing through his chest. God, he needed painkillers. He lifted his hand away from Sherlock, waving ineffectually at the magic cord that fed him meds.

Sherlock understood and pulled it closer to John. He watched John wrangle the dial.

 

_Tell him I will not hit him. Drown him, yes, but I wouldn’t want to break those cheekbones._

 

Sherlock’s eyes were slightly off as he listened to the message. Then he smiled ever so faintly.

A nurse appeared suddenly, unaware of the exchange occurring.

 

“Visiting hours are over, I’m afraid.” She propped both fists on her hips, obviously up-to-date on who Sherlock was and what he was prone to.

 

 _Go home,_ John said, staring into Sherlock’s pained eyes. _You need rest._

 

_But I want to stay._

 

_I’ll be here tomorrow. Don’t worry._

 

When Sherlock stood and adjusted his coat, he thanked the nurse for taking care of John. She appeared nonplussed, perhaps thrown by all the invective her colleagues had thrown at her about the irascible imbecile in the private ward.

 

—-*—-

 

John’s progress was slow, his healing not steady. Had he been younger, he might have at least been discharged earlier. But as it was, he had to remain at St. Bart’s for many more weeks. His ‘fascinating’ 3D implanted shoulder blade was quite the talk of the hospital. Once Sherlock had absorbed all the x-rays and test results, he went on to harass the doctors about the growth and healing rate of such a procedure. It was too new, untested and under the intense scrutiny of London’s only consulting detective-dragonrider. Sherlock was not a favourite amongst the medical professionals. He’d scared off more than enough visiting busybodies.

 

Mirth also garnered attention, once other visiting dragon riders became aware of the gold and brown camped out in the middle of London. Typical celebrities, she and her rider. John understood now, how Mycroft must feel most of the time.

 

Speaking of dragons, Benth was getting better, as far as John knew. He had yet to see his dragon, even after so long indoors.

 

Sherlock had attempted to smuggle John out to the roof no less than eight times, but it seemed the ward staff had been given extra precautions about the two’s ability to appear and disappear like thieves in the night. 

John missed seeing Benth. He got regaled by the dragon’s escapades, his hunting trips, his flights with Mirth and Teranth. The dragon was getting fit again, his mass increasing, something that bothered John greatly. They never spoke about John’s coma, as it upset Benth to much. Thankfully, dragon’s never did wallow in memories. They believed in the now, the present. So long as John did not leave, Benth was happy to eat and hunt on every whim. With the help of Mirth and Teranth, John got glimpses of his boy. His skin was glowing again, the blue crests above his eyes brightening more. He was all grown, his baby Benth. It was something to behold, even through the eyes of another animal.

 

Mirth was coming along too. John could tell, even from his hospital bed, that her eggs were almost ready. The dragon was getting more and more testy, her belly overlarge and uncomfortable. She was having trouble sleeping, which had Sherlock not sleeping too. Two mad beasts roaming the city, those two.

 

John berated Mycroft more than once about Mirth’s well-being, but the older Holmes would just roll his eyes now. Mirth would know when to leave the hospital and make her way to the weyr, of that he was certain.

 

And Sherlock had healed of his own injuries. His damaged hand was reset and bandaged, his long fingers eventually losing their swollen knuckles and scratches. The morning after John had awoken, he had almost freaked when he saw the bruising on Sherlock’s face and arms.

Clearly, the man had covered them up with make-up and gloves, and John’s mind had helpfully supplied images of hooligans roughing up hospital visitors overnight.

 

But no, Sherlock told him of the scuffle in the hangar, accounting for each and every nick and bruise. He pointed to his left cheek, showing where Moriarty’s backhand hand left faint knuckle bruises along his cheekbone.

Every other scratch and strain weighed on John, even though it made no sense.

They’d both been hurt. John shot, Sherlock beaten to a pulp. How were they still alive?

 

 _Strength and resilience,_ Mirth said.

 _Because Sherlock would be sad with you gone,_ Benth said.

 _Sheer and utter luck,_ Teranth supplied helpfully.

 

—-*—-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to have to end this here. Yes, I know, I'm terrible. D:  
> This is as good a spot as any. If I do think of more, I will add chapters, so feel free to subscribe to this story. But I can't say that'll be anytime soon. I would like this to read as complete. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! It's been the best kind of journey.


End file.
